


kiss your broken bones

by redwolves



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, Multi, PTSD, Slow Burn, Time Loop, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-07-03 13:07:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 53,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15819501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redwolves/pseuds/redwolves
Summary: He remembers vividly the first time he was sent back in time, convinced he had to do it all on his own and paying a horrible price for it at the Temple of Mythal.The second cycle was Adamant Fortress.The third cycle, no one in Haven survived.Maybe this time will be different.Inquisitor Trevelyan tries to escape a time loop.





	1. eternal return

**Author's Note:**

> this is pure self-indulgence

The dungeons are dreary and damp and dark, but his gaze is bright.

When Cassandra enters she finds it centered on her, as if he’d been watching the door in wait for her to appear, and the blue of it gleams like the body of a blade catching moonlight.

She glances toward Leliana—ever steady but warning—and they approach him, a prisoner straight-backed and proud even while chained to the ground.

The sight of it is infuriating.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now,” she speaks, reigning in her fury and her grief and her _fury_ with every ounce of self-restraint within her. “The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead. Except for you.”

He raises his chin to look at her, something passing over his face—there and gone again. He tilts his head slightly in thought, a wayward lock of gingerbread brown hair falling from his mess of mid-long tresses onto his brow, the tops of his casual coiffure swept back to keep out of his face.

All she gets is silence.

“Explain this!” she snarls, yanking up his arm and the mark on his palm flares to life with crackling green that lights up his warm, almond-tinted complexion, the unshaven scruff on his face and the dark circles beneath his eyes, expression contorting briefly in pain before smoothing out again like a mask.

Cassandra almost scoffs, and shoves his arm back down.

“It’s not mine,” he says, a Marcher’s accent as expected, but his tone is so nonchalant that Cassandra almost can’t suppress the urge to grab him by his neck and strangle the life out of him. “But I know you won’t believe me without proof, so, what say you we go seal that giant hole in the sky instead?”

And he _smiles_.

* * *

Varric isn’t entirely sure what he was expecting the mass-murderer who caused what might have been the biggest explosion in all of history to look like, but it certainly isn’t the blasé rogue that cheerfully comes to their rescue together with the Seeker who thunders down the road like an entire stampede of druffalo—though this time, it’s with good cause.

“I like your crossbow,” the prisoner-turned-tentative-savior says to Varric with a grin and a look as if it’s a private joke shared between the two of them and Varric is supposed to know what it means, then turns towards Solas as if they’re old friends and merrily inquires how much the apostate knows about the glowing mark on his hand.

Varric ignores the uneasy familiarity, at first.

But then they’re walking up the steps on the mountainside toward the temple and Arthur—as he insists he be called—preempts what Varric is going to say before he can even properly formulate the thought.

“I’m from Ostwick,” he speaks out of the blue, glancing over his shoulder back at Varric. “But I’m sure you already caught that from my accent.”

Feeling rather caught off-guard, Varric replies, “I did, actually. I would have guessed somewhere east, but you beat me to the punch.”

“You’re from Kirkwall, no?”

At this Varric is quiet for a moment, watching Arthur’s back as they follow Cassandra toward the temple. “You couldn’t have guessed that from _my_ accent.”

Even while he was born and raised on the surface, his accent is more typical for a dwarf, not someone from Kirkwall.

“I didn’t,” Arthur agrees easily, appearing completely unbothered by the remark. “Call it a lucky guess.”

The more the conversation progresses, the more uncomfortable Varric is starting to feel. A glance toward Solas confirms he’s not the only one getting suspicious, as he’s now staring Arthur’s way while they climb the seemingly endless steps.

“That didn’t sound like a guess to me,” Varric responds slowly.

There’s a pause, and then, “I’m a fan of your work, actually.”

It’s a lie, but Varric buries that observation where he finds it—now is not the time. Later, though, he’ll be sure to squeeze out every inch of the story Arthur is hiding behind that grin of his.

He has the feeling it’s going to be a real kicker.

* * *

Across the battlefield Leliana sees Trevelyan glance toward her and then disappear in the chaos of monsters tearing through holes in the ground, reappearing moments later behind her to cut down a shade demon that had been crawling her way.

“Head up top, I’ll cover you!” he says, daggers sliding across the demon’s skin with the unmistakable grace and swiftness of a trained duelist, eyes focused on his enemy even as he calls out orders and somehow, everyone falls in line.

He is used to leading, Leliana realizes as she slips from the center of the fray as the Pride demon howls across the ruined temple, climbing up to a higher vantage point where she is at her most effective.

Trevelyan understood as much, and he continues to nudge the others where they would be at their best.

Cassandra leading the most heavily armed soldiers as the vanguard to take on the Pride demon and the strongest enemies; Varric flitting between mid-range and long-range to pick off the weaker enemies; Solas skirting the edges with a focus on support; and Leliana and the archers furthest away where they have the most freedom.

It’s no wonder the Pride demon falls as quickly as it does. Trevelyan seems to know instinctively the most opportune moments to use his mark and disrupt the rift, seems to know exactly where the Pride demon’s weaknesses are as the tips of his daggers find them with every strike.

Has he faced such horrible adversaries before? Leliana finds it extremely unlikely. Everything she managed to uncover—even in the short few days of chaos following the explosion—suggested Trevelyan had led the sheltered life of a nobleman’s thirdborn, raised as part of a bloodline with loyalty to the Chantry and close ties to the Templar Order, come to the Conclave to aid his family in the proceedings.

A man like that being so skilled and unperturbed when faced with wave after wave of demons, more composed even than some veteran scouts in Leliana’s service, is suspect to say the least. He exploits the most miniscule flaws others would have easily overlooked, daggers striking with incredible precision that renders shade after shade completely incapacitated, allowing the vanguard to freely focus on the Pride demon.

Once it collapses with a final blow of Cassandra’s blade, Trevelyan turns to the Breach, raises his palm to the rift and the mark explodes with light, creating a chain that almost seems to pull Trevelyan towards the tear as his boots scuff against the ground and his entire arm trembles violently.

What follows is a sound of thunder as if struck by the Maker’s very hand, rumbling through the ground and making the air tremble.

The sky scars over and Trevelyan collapses and suddenly, everything goes silent.

In the aftermath, as their savior—the Herald of Andraste, they begin to call him—rests and the dust settles, Leliana sends out a raven, headed straight to an agent in Ostwick.

Secrets cannot hide from her.

* * *

“Hello, Solas,” Arthur addresses him with an odd amount of vigor on the morning of his awakening, seeming wholly unconcerned with the crowds of people gathered around to stare at him.

“Arthur,” Solas says, eyes flitting down to where the Anchor rests dormant on his skin, calmed for the moment. “I believe the Seeker requires your presence.”

“Unless the Chantry is on fire, it can wait,” Arthur responds dismissively, looking around the small square in front of the apothecary before turning back to Solas again with interest, specks of snow dotting in his hair as the wind blows. “How have you been holding up?”

Solas is silent for a moment, and wonders if Arthur has any idea how complicated the answer to his question actually is.

He settles for something neutral. “I’ve been well enough.”

Before he can continue, Arthur asks, “You’ve decided to stay?”

“I had been considering it,” Solas says, averting his gaze toward the tavern, where a small group of people has formed outside to watch them—or rather, watch Arthur.

Solas planned on opening the conversation if approached with something striking to suit the atmosphere, but there’s a certain glint to Arthur’s eyes that cuts through the words of famous and forgotten battlefields resting on the bed of his tongue, and instead, Solas finds himself guarded.

Arthur smiles almost apologetically, ignoring the attention of Haven’s residents as if he’d been living under it his whole life. “Your caution is understandable, but I promise no harm will come to you; Cassandra wouldn’t allow it, and neither would I.”

His sincerity (and certainty) is a startling contrast to what Solas has come to expect from the people here. If he’s not being looked down on for being a _knife-ear_ then he’s being treated with distrust for being an _apostate_ , yet neither condescension nor wariness is to be found in Arthur’s face.

If anything, he seems somber.

“Thank you, I appreciate the thought,” Solas answers at length, glancing away from winter-blue eyes. “I will stay, then, so long as I can be of any help.”

Arthur’s brows furrow slightly and his smile almost turns strained. “I’m sure you will be.”

It is very hard to read him, Solas thinks as he observes Arthur’s expression shift again, leaving him guessing as to what that frown could have meant, where that glimpse of sadness came from—he is certainly not the only one in this conversation who is being cautious.

“If the Herald of Andraste himself believes as much, then yes, I’m sure I will be.”

The strain in Arthur’s smile eases out into a playful curl. “I’m stuck with that title forever, aren’t I?”

“We can’t always choose how others perceive us,” Solas replies, finding his mind starting to wander for just a moment, dipping a toe back into memories that have no use to him in the here and now yet cling like a ball of chain around his ankle. “But we can make use of it.”

“Speaking from experience?”

Solas pauses—Arthur is looking at him in that way again and an insane thought passes his mind, _does he know_ , nothing but paranoia that he discards as soon as it arises—and then says, “Fortunately for you, yes. Had I been anything other than a mild-mannered, bare-faced elven apostate, I’m not certain my help would have been as welcomed. Though I use the word welcomed very loosely.”

“I see your point,” Arthur concedes, nothing left of that clear-eyed look that is now replaced by a neutral calm. “In any case, I should probably get going before Cassandra comes looking for me.”

“Yes, that would be best,” Solas agrees, relieved the conversation is done with. Something about Arthur unsettles him.

“But before I go,” Arthur adds, “I’m not sure how long this meeting with Cassandra is going to last, but considering… well, it’s best if you and Varric join us shortly. I have a rather important announcement to make.” 

The wind blows bitter cold and Solas feels it bite into the tips of his toes and his fingers in spite of his magic keeping him warm as he watches Arthur turn his gaze toward the Chantry, his smile fading from his face.

“I know who killed the Divine.”


	2. the tragedy of fate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> relevant to this chapter, albeit they're only very minor details: [the calendar](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Calendar) in the dragon age universe, and [the first update](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Codex_entry:_Cullen) to cullen's codex entry

How many times has he been through this same exact sequence of events?

Arthur gazes at their soon-to-be shoddy war table, not yet decorated with a map of southern Thedas, all its scratches and dents and holes spread across aged wood still clearly visible to any discerning eye. No doubt it has seen much use in this place, this village somehow still alive even though he has witnessed it being razed to the ground four times before.

“The Grey Wardens?” Leliana murmurs as the shock passes over her and settles just that bit quicker than it does for Cassandra and Varric, and much more so than it does for Chancellor Roderick, a man who Arthur has witnessed die twice.

It’s as if his every step is haunted by ghosts.

“You are certain?” Cassandra asks but doesn’t bother to wait for a response because she can read the answer in his eyes and immediately shifts to the next question. “But what reason could they possibly have to murder the Divine? They are supposed to be apolitical!”

Arthur’s gaze moves past Leliana to the spot where Cullen should be, and next to him Josephine. Neither are present yet, but it’s only a matter of time. If he remembers correctly Cullen will be too swamped with cleaning up the aftermath of the most recent battle to join them for a few days yet, rallying what little troops are left, and Josephine is still on her way.

“I don’t know,” he lies, refocusing his attention to the present—past?—and addressing Cassandra’s concerns the best he can. “They did seem a bit off at the time; their eyes were glazed over.”

“You’re saying they were being mind-controlled?” Varric questions reluctantly.

“It’s possible.”

Varric sighs, opens his mouth to say something, then decides the better of it and hangs his head with his hands placed on his hips. His reaction seems to be nothing but weariness, and considering what he’s been through, Arthur can hardly blame him.

He spares the Dread Wolf a glance.

Solas meets his gaze across the table but says nothing, averting it a moment later and returning to silently mulling over the matter for himself, not providing much input as the discussion continues.

“What of this creature?” Leliana demands coolly as Roderick, pale as a sheet, starts muttering something underneath his breath; it takes Arthur a second to realize it’s a prayer. “The one in charge?”

“I didn’t catch a name,” Arthur begins slowly, deliberately not looking Varric’s way and keeping his attention on Leliana’s sharp gaze. “All I can say is that he looked monstrous, as if he was blighted like a darkspawn. He was abnormally tall and skeletal with these huge red shards embedded in his face, three on the left side and one on his right jaw—red lyrium, I believe.”

There’s a pause.

“Shit,” Varric says. “ _Shit_.”

Arthur lets the scene play out, and watches as Varric admits his suspicions of Corypheus, watches muscle stiffen in Solas’ shoulders, watches Leliana’s gaze shift with every calculation, watches Cassandra’s hands shrink into tightly-balled fists.

He watches Roderick, watches a dead man collapse into a chair and breathe, and just like every other time none of this feels real. Like he’s stuck in a theater play doomed to repeat itself until he gets his lines right, if only he knew what they were.

Within seconds arguing nearly erupts, but quickly cools down again under Leliana’s severe gaze and Varric’s reasonable interjections.

As fractured as they are, these are all still people who have been through their own versions of hell before; it would take more to make them crumble. Much more.

Arthur lets his gaze wander as he sinks into thought. It’s frustrating not to be able to confess it all, to reveal to them Corypheus’ plans with the templars and the mages, with the red lyrium, with the demons in Adamant Fortress, with Empress Celene’s assassination, but he has tried to do so before in a past life. The one before this, his third cycle.

It did not end well; Corypheus overran Haven before they even had the chance to close the Breach.

He will not, he _cannot_ let that happen ever again.

“I will make it a priority to find out their whereabouts as soon as possible,” Leliana says of the Grey Wardens, snapping Arthur out of his memories. “In the meantime, we must focus our efforts on expanding our influence in the region, recruiting and building our troops—you will be instrumental in accomplishing that.”

She looks to him, and Arthur inclines his head without saying a word. It was expected.

“ _Your_ troops?” Roderick cuts in now, looking aghast and outraged, the poor fool. “The Chantry will—”

“Do nothing.” Cassandra cuts in brusquely. “It cannot be relied upon, not while it still remains in shock. We will keep this information to ourselves.”

“Makes sense,” Varric mutters. “Can’t risk letting Corypheus know we’re onto him.”

“It is a good thing you remembered,” Solas adds, saying to Arthur, though he seems inordinately tense, more so than Arthur expected—

Ah.

The orb.

“I’d call it lucky,” he replies simply, turning back to Cassandra and Leliana. “So, what are we supposed to be doing while your spies track the Wardens down?”

The two women exchange quiet glances before Cassandra backs away and reaches for something on a desk behind her, pulling away a thick, dusty old tome. She drops it on the center of the table with an impressive thud.

Divine Justinia’s writ.

Arthur lets out a breath and smiles wearily as the Inquisition is formed in spite of Roderick’s protests.

The scene concludes.

The play continues.

* * *

When the meeting ends the first thing Arthur does is find a quiet spot in the Chantry—at the desk where Vivienne will set up once he recruits her, or rather, she recruits herself—to write a letter to his family.

Arthur trails a finger over his chin, face clean-shaven after finding a much needed razor. He hasn’t seen his siblings in years.

The knowledge weighs on him. With Haven burning to the ground in this past lifetime, friends and allies cut down where they stood, when he woke up this fourth time in the dungeons to start it all over again and Cassandra once more guided him across the bridge, Arthur considered killing himself.

Maybe it would break this torturous repetition of life and death, he thought, or maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe it would just start him over again, and did he really want to find out whether he was actually a prisoner, tormented endlessly by some unseen force keeping him trapped in time?

There would be no point to it, and he would never forgive himself if he gave up so easily. Arthur was never very fond of the Chantry though he does believe, _has_  to believe this was yet another trial ordained by the Maker.

If it isn't, if instead it is just some cruel turn of apathetic fate, then Arthur isn't certain how many times more he can suffer this before losing his mind.

So he sits down at the desk and, after taking a deep breath, he writes.

Or, he tries to. He doesn’t get any further than _‘Dearest mother,’_ before his mind blanks and the words won’t come out of his quill. He never wrote to them in his past cycles, not at first, not until his father’s letters began to beg for a response until he was shamed into writing a short reply.

He hasn’t heard his brother’s voice in years, hasn’t danced with his sister for even longer than that and he can’t even recall the last time he embraced either of his parents.

What could he possibly say?

He thinks on it, parchment illuminated by an ever-shrinking candle, and suddenly remembers a letter he once glimpsed on the corner of a desk, unanswered.

With a faint smile he dips the tip of his quill into ink again, and begins to write.

_‘Dearest mother,_

_I’m still alive….’_

* * *

The Hinterlands are exactly as he remembers them, and if his companions are confused as to his insistence on killing every ram he sees after meeting with Mother Giselle, then they are being very polite about it.

Arthur is more than relieved that he has managed to take command so easily, considering the last time with his outburst about being a time-traveler they all but locked him up in Haven until they were sure he wouldn’t do or say something to jeopardize the fledgling Inquisition. They did not let him anywhere near the war table let alone help make decisions on missions until it was far too late.  

Now, however, Cassandra, Varric and Solas seem to have no objections to him leading them through the Hinterlands.

His companions are, all three of them, also _very_ quiet when he not only casually marks every apostate cache for recruit Whittle on a map once they find the Crossroads, but adds several other points of interests including rifts, places to set up camps, the templar encampment and the mages stronghold, the watchtower locations, the cave of wolves where the demon roams, the mercenary fortress, and finally the possible agents the Inquisition could recruit within the area.

Hopefully he’ll be able to save some more lives this way.

Of course, the silence of his companions doesn’t last for long as they watch him work with quill and ink before he instructs an Inquisitor agent to copy the map and spread it around. By this point Arthur knows the Hinterlands better than even a native.

“How could you _possibly_ know—”

Arthur raises a hand as he heads up the road toward the hunter quietly cooking in a corner of the Crossroads to inform him of the crate filled with ram’s meat they scrounged up on the road, cutting Cassandra off. “I’ll tell you later.”

When he takes them down the West Road to scout out the templar encampment, finding them there as expected, and sneaks them past without obstruction, his companions start losing patience.

“This is starting to get ridiculous,” Cassandra says as they cross the small stream below the broken bridge. “You could not have known that, unless Leliana’s scouts informed you and didn’t bother informing us.”

“I promise I’ll explain in due time,” Arthur tries to assure her. “But if I told you _now_ , you’d think I was mad.”

“Try us,” Varric says, grimacing at getting his boots wet, and Arthur shakes his head as he heads up back to the road towards the farmlands.

“There’s really no time for it,” Arthur responds patiently. “Our focus right now should be getting to Redcliffe and Val Royeaux as quickly as possible.”

Cassandra makes a noise behind him. “You want to approach the rebel mages, as well as the templars?”

“If it’s not already too late.”

Ideally, he’d like to get to Redcliffe first seeing as how that is the crux of his plan in getting everyone to believe his being hurled back into time four times now.

If he can just amass the right amount of influence in the region _before_ the templars leave Val Royeaux so he can sort things out with the mages first and deal with the Order afterwards, then that will cut this war that Corypheus is building up very, very short.

Though there is the issue of Lord-Seeker Lucius—or rather, the Envy demon. Thinking about how to approach the templars now is pointless, however; his first objective is to establish a proper foothold in the region.

Once he arranges for Master Dennet to head on over to Haven he’ll have to clear out the templar encampment and the apostate stronghold before he can think to approach Redcliffe safely.

Arthur glances behind him at his companions and feels some worry. While his body may not be as rigorously trained as it was before, his mind still remembers clearly; it’s all just a matter of reapplying all that he has learned in his past lifetimes.

Whether the others will be able to keep up with him is a different question.

He supposes he’ll see soon enough.

* * *

_A letter sent in the year 9:41 DRAGON, during the month of Cloudreach:_

> **Dearest mother,**
> 
> **I’m still alive, although I realize that is of little comfort considering the sort of news that must have been coming out of Ferelden.**
> 
> **While I can guess the conflicting reports you must have heard, considering the circumstances I have been treated with nothing but the utmost courtesy—after proving my innocence. The shackles were all very temporary, I promise.**
> 
> **Since I do not know the specifics of what you’ve been told, let me summarize what I am allowed to share: the Conclave was destroyed in an explosion that left me as the sole survivor and caused the Breach in the sky from which demons yet rain down on us by the hour.**
> 
> **The Hands of the Divine as well as the people in Haven judged me to be the perpetrator and I cannot say that they did not have cause to do so. You must have heard the stories that claim I appeared out of a rift in the Fade, carried out by Andraste herself.**
> 
> **I cannot tell you the truth of it for I do not remember it myself; whoever or whatever it was that saved me, I rather think I was merely fortunate enough to be in the right place at the right time. I do have the infamous mark upon my hand, connected to the Breach with a strange sort of magick, which only seems to add to the claim that I must truly be the Herald of Andraste.**
> 
> **But there is no one that has any certainty on the matter. For every man that insists my survival was divine providence, there are ten others who’d hang me from the gallows for heresy.**
> 
> **That is to say, I am perfectly safe here. If possible I would thank you and Arcelia not to let either father or Regulus read this letter and give them a sanitized version instead. You know how father dotes, and I fear that if Regulus knew the whole truth of it that he would march right into Haven to drag me back to Ostwick himself, but I cannot return. At least not for several months.**
> 
> **I am the only one who can close these rifts that keep spawning these monsters who go on to terrorize the innocent, spreading farther and wider while leaving nothing but ruin and destruction in their wake. If something is not done the chaos will surely reach the Free Marches, and so I must act.**
> 
> **All this aside, the important thing is that I am well. Give my love to Arcelia and father, and assure Regulus of my safety before he does something rash. Maker willing I will return to you within a year's time.**
> 
> **Till we meet again,**
> 
> **Arthur**

* * *

“You are making it very hard to trust you,” Cassandra says to him as she dismounts at Haven’s stables, having freshly arrived from what was a very productive time in the Hinterlands, though it did not gain him any goodwill from his companions.

Then again, after they all saw that each and every one of Arthur’s marks on the map held true in reality he doesn’t fault them for thinking he’s keeping secrets from them, but providing evidence _before_ explaining his situation is vital. The last time Arthur tried to do it the other way around, it didn’t end well.

But their suspicion is hard to bear.  

Even Varric is eyeing him with a certain amount of caution now, and though Arthur knew keeping this secret would require some sacrifice on his part, it still hurts.

These are all people, each and every one of them, who have died for him before in lifetimes they cannot possibly remember, and he has died for each and every one of them in return. To have them so distrustful of him now is bothering him more than he anticipated.

Perhaps because, under Varric’s wary eyes and Cassandra’s cold remarks, Arthur feels the full weight of a singular fact bearing down on his shoulders.

He is all alone in this.

“Cassandra,” he cannot help but try, for the memory of fondly exasperated smiles and a shield that was always there when he needed it. “I promised I would explain, did I not? Everything I’ve done so far has only benefitted the Inquisition so far, hasn’t it?”

To his surprise, it’s Solas who comes to his aid.

“He has a point.” Arthur, still atop his horse, watches Solas dismount with no small amount of surprise as the Dread Wolf offers his own perspective. “I don’t see how feeding hungry refugees and clearing out the roads for travelers could possibly be part of some sort of nefarious plot.”

“It is _how_ he did it that is the problem here,” Cassandra responds irritably as Arthur slips off his own saddle, allowing his steed to be taken with the others by a young stable-hand who seems too intimidated to even so much as glance in his direction. “If he has resources that he isn’t sharing with the Inquisition—”

“I don’t,” Arthur interrupts. “Aside from my family’s coin and connections, I have nothing beside what I already know.”

Cassandra throws up her hands in exasperation. “And what is that supposed to mean? How could you have known the exact location of every single one of those apostate caches when you’ve never stepped foot into Ferelden before in your life? Let alone everything else!”

Part of him thinks he should be impressed that they managed to figure out his entire background within such a short period of time, but he knows Leliana too well to be surprised anymore.

“You’re not secretly some sort of Rivaini Seer, are you?” Varric remarks, trying to keep the conversation a bit more light-hearted, but all it ends up doing is fueling Cassandra’s tension in spite of Solas’ defense of him.

In fact, all three of them are staring at him now, and Arthur realizes that if he doesn’t throw them a bone now this might turn very ugly for him very quickly.

“No, I’m not a mage of any sort,” he says definitively, glancing around to make sure there is no one close enough to eavesdrop. Once he’s certain there’s no one around the stables but the horses, he continues. “But I do have a… well, I’m not sure I should call it a _gift_ , but that’s the only way I can describe it.”

Not all gifts are wanted.

“A gift?” Cassandra prompts, eyebrows arching. “What sort of gift is this, and how did you come by it?”

“I can’t tell you how,” Arthur replies quickly. “Not yet, anyway.”

“So, don’t keep us in suspense,” Varric says, crossing his arms expectantly. “What’s this gift about?”

Arthur takes a deep breath, eyes passing over each face—Solas neutral, Cassandra frustrated, Varric curious—and speaks.

“I’ve seen the future.”

Cassandra’s mouth slowly drops open but no sound comes out. Varric blinks twice, frowns, then sighs. Solas goes rigid, but his expression does not change.

Arthur smiles wanly. “I would’ve told you before, but I didn’t think you’d believe me without evidence.”

“How did—” Cassandra stops herself before she can ask, already knowing his reply. “ _Maker_.”

“At least it all makes sense now?” Varric offers.

Solas is silent.

“It’s probably not what you were expecting, I know,” Arthur says, and the relief inside him is profound. "But it's the truth."

Though he suspected they’d have little choice but to believe him after all he did in the Hinterlands, he still remembers a lifetime ago when they all turned their backs on him because they were beginning to think he had lost his mind.

He can’t exactly blame them—he did come across as a bit of a raving lunatic, being that the lifetime before that one, Corypheus had killed everyone at Adamant Fortress in spite of Arthur’s efforts. He woke up in his third cycle screaming and sobbing hysterically, completely out of his mind, begging them to listen.

Small wonder they locked him away.

“Okay, so you’ve seen the future,” Varric continues when Cassandra is still struggling for words and Solas remains in his stony silence. “Honestly, that’s a little nuts, but on a list of Craziest Shit in Thedas I don’t think it even ranks in the top five.”

“How far into the future?”

Arthur turns his gaze to Solas. There are many ways he can play this; none of them are particularly attractive options, but to reveal what he knows this soon seems destructive. Solas was—is, hopefully will be again—his friend, and if he can do anything, _anything_ at all to steer him away from where he is heading towards then he has to try.

In the meantime, however, he will definitely be keeping an eye out for any potential elven spies.

“I know how to defeat Corypheus,” he says; lies coated with truth are the best kind of lies, after all. “I know how it _should_ end; the problem is getting there.”

“What do you mean?” Cassandra asks. “If you know what he will do, is it not simple?”

“I can anticipate his next moves, yes,” Arthur confirms, “but acting on it will change things, change how he behaves, and once that happens all my knowledge of the future will be rendered useless. If we’re going to beat him, it needs to happen in a single, decisive battle.”

Varric snorts. “Oh, is that all?”

With that out of the way, Arthur turns to the matter at hand again. “At any rate, I’d appreciate it if we could, ah, keep this a secret among the four of us and Leliana for the time being. At least until we reach Redcliffe and meet the rebel mages.”

“Why?” Cassandra demands. “What’s in Redcliffe that is so important?”

“Answers.”

At the three blank stares he receives in return, Arthur sighs and elaborates. “If you want to know how I got to see the future, you’ll find the answer to that in Redcliffe. We should head there as soon as possible anyway to—”

“Hold on!” Varric cuts in, holding up his hands. “We are not discussing this while standing in a pool of horseshit. Besides which, I need a drink.”

Cassandra concedes with a scowl. “I’ll arrange a private room in the Chantry.” And she storms off.

Varric sighs again, loudly, following her back towards the village. “I’ll get Nightingale.”

That leaves him alone with Solas.

“I’ll get the drinks?” Arthur offers.

“So long as it’s not tea,” Solas mutters in reply, the last one to wander off and leave Arthur by himself in the snow.

He watches Solas retreat toward the village and stands by the stables for a while, petting the horses as he turns to observe the Inquisition soldiers spar in the distance under Cullen’s watchful eye, until the cold finally gets to him and he heads toward the gates as well.

At least he didn’t get locked up this time.


	3. a silent distance

The influence of the Inquisition has spread at an unparalleled pace, particularly compared to Arthur’s previous attempts in the cycles before this one. It's an encouraging sign, but the rate of progress is also starting to make him nervous.

“Speaker Anais,” he addresses the cult leader, the rift within the Winterwatch Tower sealed and the air healed over. “Do you happen to have any mages among your number?”

The woman regards him with some wariness, before her eyes flit to Solas standing behind Arthur and she relaxes again. “A few, Your Worship.”

She asked him what she and her followers could do for him, and while in previous lifetimes Arthur had been too unnerved by the idea of commanding his own cult to give them any proper orders, he cannot afford to do so now. Whatever avenue of resources available to him, he must make the most of it.

“I need them to go to Redcliffe Village and report back what they find,” Arthur says, having sent out scouts earlier to make sure the time rift had not appeared in front of the village gates yet. “The Inquisition needs eyes and ears on the rebel mages, particularly the most recent arrivals.”

“Most recent arrivals, Your Worship?”

“Foreigners,” Arthur clarifies briefly. “Among them a Magister from Tevinter.”

Anais looks troubled by the revelation, rose lips pursing into a displeased line. “We will see to this matter at once, Herald of Andraste, and pass our reports on to your people.”

“That was well done,” Solas says to him as they retreat towards the nearest camp, settled in Dwarfson’s Pass among the ruins of what must have once been a small keep of sorts. “Although I am uncertain of how effective an untrained spy will be.”

Arthur can see its collapsed tower in the distance as they venture around the broken bridge back toward the stairways, Solas on his left and Cassandra coming up on his right with Varric lingering a step behind them.

“For now we just need some insight on the situation there,” Arthur reasons, trying to remember how much time he has left to recruit both the rebel mages and the templars. “I’m not expecting detailed insider information, but a general idea would be nice.”

It’s a tall order, perhaps even arrogant; some thought Divine Justinia’s intervention was the last chance for both groups to finally come to an understanding. Arthur is by no means comparing himself to the likes of her, but perhaps having a common enemy will be enough.

“While this Tevinter magister takes precedence, what of the templars?” Cassandra asks. “We do not have enough influence to approach them and trying to plant spies among them will be too risky, but we cannot stand by and do nothing.”

The templars, if Arthur remembers correctly, will abandon Val Royeaux within three weeks at the end of Bloomingtide. He has until then to figure out how to approach the rebel mages and Alexius, knows that influence will not be an issue as the Venatori will be fixated on him due to his mark either way. In theory, he could approach them whenever he wants.

“The templars will have to wait,” Arthur decides as they all descend the slightly precarious stairs, wood starting to rot and bend underneath their weight. “We have time.”

Varric hums. “Allying with the rebel mages this early on might make it impossible to play ball with the templars, you know that right?”

“Unless you conscript them,” Cassandra suggests.

“Forming an alliance with the mages in order to close the Breach might also shame the templars into action,” Solas counters. “If there are any left with a semblance of decency, that is.”

Arthur thinks of Ser Barris— _Knight-Commander_  Barris, in a previous cycle. “There are, with more than just a  _semblance_  of decency I'd say.”

The four of them exit the building and step back onto the grassy woodlands, their view clear of bandits as they head back to camp and Arthur finds himself lost in thought, as is often the case nowadays.

His feet are starting to ache, the circles beneath his eyes have grown darker and sometimes he feels dead on his feet but he cannot rest, and none of his companions yet know him well enough to inquire after his state of mind.

Or rather, he doesn’t let them. He keeps them all at an arm’s length, discussing nothing but strategy and Inquisition business whenever he does deign to speak with them, deflecting any questions broaching the personal with casual humor. 

“It occurs to me that I barely know anything about you,” Cassandra said to him almost awkwardly a week ago in the snowy fields outside Haven, standing beside a battered dummy with her sword in hand. “Where are you from?”

“Ask the spymaster; I'm sure she has a file on me by now,” Arthur replied wryly before walking past her, heading straight for Cullen to discuss possible improvements they could make to Haven’s defenses.

Part of it is that he already has heard it all before, but another part is… anxiety. Maybe even a little fear. How many times has he built these bonds between them all before everything was erased once the cycle reset itself?

It’s better not to get close, better to keep his mind clear of distractions, better to keep his heart safe.

Back at camp the party takes a moment to refuel, Solas and Cassandra sitting around the campfire with two Inquisition soldiers telling a story about how they had to face down a bear and two wild dogs the other day.

Arthur passes by them without a glance—he would’ve sat beside them in another life, listening and laughing along with them—and heads up the steps of the fragmented tower to check on some requisitions when he finds Varric there already.

He’s seated on a chair beside the requisitions desk, quietly scribbling something on a sheet of parchment that he has placed on top of a book balancing on his knee, muttering something underneath his breath about human-sized tables.

“Are you writing to someone?” Arthur inquires, curiosity piqued as he comes up the last few steps and Varric startles in his chair, looking up at him sharply before he eases up.

“An old friend,” Varric confirms, glancing once toward the campfire where the others are. “Thought he would be interested in what’s been going on.”

Arthur arches his brows slightly. “How much are you telling this friend?”

“Nothing classified, I promise, just…” Varric hesitates, looking torn for one long moment as his eyes drift off toward the campfire again. “I suppose it’s better if he’s not involved, anyway.”

“Varric,” Arthur says slowly, suspicion building, “is this friend who I  _think_ it is?”

At this, Varric straightens up. “That depends on whether your guess could end up getting my ass kicked by a certain Seeker.”

Hawke.

Arthur is so surprised by the development that he takes a second to respond, mind whirring with possibilities. “What exactly are you writing him, and why?”

“Look, this whole mess started because I—” Varric cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Hawke’s been on the run since that mess in Kirkwall and with Corypheus on the loose, he should know about what’s going on.”

“You think Corypheus might go after him?” Arthur asks, knowing Varric’s fear won’t pan out considering Corypheus will have his hands full with the Inquisition to waste time going on a manhunt.

“Maybe,” Varric considers, brows furrowing in thought. “I’m just- worried.”

Hawke, from what Arthur remembers, tried to stay impartial during the building clash between the mages and templars in Kirkwall. When Meredith invoked the Right of Annulment, however, he decided to stand against her in the end.

There are calculations that a more reasonable mind would take the time to make, Arthur is sure. Someone of Hawke’s infamy could be both a blessing and a curse; his power and influence is undeniable.

Can he truly afford to pass up this opportunity?

“Tell him everything,” Arthur decides. “In fact, why don’t you ask him if he’s interested in visiting Haven sometime soon?”

Varric looks stunned. “You want me to _invite_ him?”

“He’ll be safer with the Inquisition than wherever he’s hiding at the moment,” Arthur says, carefully playing on Varric’s concern for his friend; Arcelia would be proud. “I’m not asking him to join us or to become an agent—Chancellor Roderick's head might actually explode if we go that far—but we could use an independent ally like him. Think he would accept the offer?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Varric says with a snort, looking down at his letter in consideration. “Running off to make friends with a bunch of rebels denounced by the Chantry itself? He’ll get a huge kick out of this.”

Arthur nods absentmindedly, already thinking about how to play this angle with the templars. Meredith’s actions at Kirkwall were subject of censure among several high-ranking officers within the Order, though that was  _before_ Divine Justinia’s death. Perhaps seeing Hawke on the Inquisition’s side will, as Solas said, actually be enough to shame the templars into action.

“I’ll talk to Cassandra about it later in the evening,” Arthur informs Varric, “though I suggest you make yourself scarce when I do.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Varric mutters as Arthur turns around and leaves him to write his letter, heading back down the steps.

Changes in the timeline are starting to happen, snowballing bigger and bigger.

Hopefully, they're good changes.

* * *

_Part of a letter that was sent to Leliana by one of her spies, detailing correspondence between the Herald’s uncle, Octavius Trevelyan, and an Inquisition agent:_

> **I must say, Lady Buttlefort, how refreshing it is to be asked about my youngest nephew for a change. Most are much more interested in hearing about the colorful exploits of his siblings, but I suppose with the attack on the Conclave I should start anticipating many more questions about Arthur to come.**
> 
> **He was certainly the quietest of the three growing up, and I have to confess—to my great shame—that I know very little about the boy. He was always very close to his older brother and sister, but he also had a penchant for disappearing at times to Maker knows where. Doubtlessly easy to do when the shadows cast by your siblings are great enough to hide in.**

* * *

“Promise me you won’t strangle him to death when he returns,” Arthur asks wearily while Cassandra continues to angrily rake the scales off a fish with her knife to the point where Arthur is somewhat worried she’s going to end up skinning it down to its spine.

“He _lied_ ,” Cassandra spits, abruptly shoving the de-scaled fish and knife into the hands of the Inquisition scout in charge of dinner that night, glaring into the bonfire. “We needed Hawke, before the Inquisition, before the Conclave! Yet Varric kept him from us.”

“Can you really fault Varric for trying to protect his friend?”

Cassandra exhales deeply through her nostrils, the dancing flames reflecting an orange glint into her eyes like the heat of newly forged iron, still burning.

“If Varric didn’t trust you enough to tell you the truth, then I doubt Hawke would’ve accepted your offer even if you did manage to find him,” Arthur continues at Cassandra’s silence.

“Maybe,” Cassandra starts, hesitance creeping in her voice, “maybe if I had explained what was at stake, maybe Hawke could’ve prevented…”

“Or maybe he would’ve died like the others.” Arthur meets Cassandra’s gaze over the fire. “What matters is that Varric told us about it now.”     

He’s aware of all the eyes on them, soldiers in the camp listening in or blatantly watching the conversation take place as seconds tick by, tension still thick in the air before Cassandra exhales a breath and her rigid posture eases.

“You’re right,” she says. “We shouldn’t dwell on the past.”

“So, you’re _not_ going to strangle Varric?” Arthur asks, just to confirm, and Cassandra huffs.

“I can make no promises,” she replies dryly, rising to her feet and leaving towards one of the tents, likely to gather her thoughts.

The young soldier that Cassandra delegated her fish to stares after her before nervously turning to Arthur, lowering his voice. “Should, uh, should we be worried about a fight, Your Worship?”

“If you don’t clean that fish of every little bone, then yes, there will be a _very_ big fight,” Arthur says, keeping his face completely blank and enjoying watching the recruit squirm, to the amusement of several of his seniors looking on.

“He’s just taking the piss, Hill,” one of them says, taking a seat next to him.

The soldier, Hill, blinks and looks down at his fish in embarrassment. “Oh.”

When both Solas and Varric do finally return from taking a rather lengthy walk around the perimeter, Varric looks around for Cassandra and his brows arch in question when he can’t find her.

“She’s in her tent,” Arthur tells him, still sitting by the bonfire and chewing on his freshly-roasted fish, grimacing when he feels a grate stick into the roof of his mouth. “Oh, and dinner’s ready—Hill! What did I say about bones in my fish?”

He grins when he sees the recruit jump from where he stands guard by the ruined tower, though it fades quickly when he notices both Varric and Solas staring at him from the corner of his eyes.

Perhaps he’s getting a little too comfortable.

“So glad you waited for us to join you before eating,” Varric says, every word dripping with sarcasm as he sits down next to Arthur, the sound of veteran soldiers teasing the youngest one among them carrying across the camp and filling the air with good humor.

“I’m a true gentleman,” Arthur replies with as much sincerity as he can muster, which is practically none. “Have a productive walk?”

“Very productive,” Solas confirms as he sits down across from them, “in not getting Varric throttled, at least.”

“That’s always a good thing,” Varric agrees as a he picks a fish off the roast, setting Bianca down beside him and leaning her against the log he’s sitting on. “Alright, Wonderboy, what’s the plan?”

It takes Arthur a moment to realize Varric is referring to him. “ _Wonderboy_?”

“You got a better suggestion?”

Arthur doesn’t have a response for him in his stunned silence; Varric has never given him a nickname before.

He changes the topic instead; “We check on the progress of the watchtowers and recruit Dennet for the Inquisition, maybe try to close that rift in the stream near the farms, and return to Haven to figure out what to do with the mages. Hopefully we’ll have word from Redcliffe by then on the situation.”

“You see that Despair demon lurking around near that rift?” Varric says, looking reluctant about the idea of so much as approaching it. “It’s gonna be a tough one.”

Arthur didn’t need to be told that; Despair demons were easily his least favorite of the bunch due to their tendency to fly away and raise up incredibly tough barriers.

“Leave the Despair demon up to me,” Arthur assures Varric, though that only gets him a curious look.

“You seem experienced in fighting these spirits,” Solas notes.

“Or fighting in general,” Varric adds. “You ever done professional dueling? Your footwork’s impressive.”

“I trained with some templars from Kirkwall who faced down demons before,” Arthur lies smoothly. “And I may have participated in a few tournaments here and there.”

While Solas appears mostly thoughtful, Varric hums and looks distinctly unconvinced.

“What?” Arthur challenges his skeptical look. “Maybe I’m just a natural talent.”

“I know the difference between raw talent and experience when I see it,” Varric says. “The way you’re anticipating moves before the enemy even makes them? That’s more than just training, that’s hands-on experience talking.”

Arthur considers how to get himself out from underneath the scrutiny; trying to gently deflect isn’t going to work with Varric. The best thing to do here is to shock him.

“Well,” Arthur says nonchalantly, “that might be because my older sister is an assassin. She taught me quite a few tricks in how to take out any opponent as quickly as possible.”

Varric does a double-take and Solas blinks mildly.

“Your sister is a _what_?”

It’s at that moment—and Maker bless her for it—that Cassandra emerges from her tent and kills the conversation, Varric shifting uneasily beside Arthur as Cassandra takes a seat beside Solas without so much as sparing Varric a glance.

Arthur relaxes now that the heat is taken off him, albeit for now. He wasn’t lying, either. While not associated with a guild, Arcelia’s former dueling instructor used to be a professional assassin who taught her the ways of the quick-footed combat style as well as more practical advice.

One might be surprised at how desperately high in demand poison is these days in the upper circles of society. Arthur is positive Arcelia is responsible for at least four widowers, ending seven family disputes and possibly even one particular assassination of a vengeful chevalier jilted by some nobleborn daughter or another.

It’s a risky but very powerful position his sister finds herself in. Arcelia always loved walking on the edge and Arthur does not envy her for it. Regulus does; if it were up to him, he’d give up his birthright and live his life as a mercenary, Arthur’s sure.

Lost in thought over his siblings and feeling unexpectedly homesick, Arthur barely listens to the conversation that resumes around him as he tosses the remains of his fish into the fire and wipes down his hands before getting up from the log.

“—or you could continue ignoring each other,” he catches Solas say, a hint of dry humor to his voice as he glances from Varric to Cassandra. “I’m sure that won’t have any negative impacts on our team dynamics during battle.”  

“I’m not going to apologize for trying to keep Hawke safe,” Varric says definitively, and Cassandra erupts.

“You said you didn’t know where he was!” While she doesn’t look as infuriated as she did earlier, her tone is still accusatory and her gaze bright with lingering anger and disgust. “You lied to my face and I, like a fool, thought your word could be trusted!”

“That was entirely your mistake, Seeker,” Varric says, as close to snapping as Arthur has seen him come and he already feels too exhausted to deal with this.

“Enough,” Arthur cuts in, commanding; it doesn’t come naturally to him, but he has been forced to learn. “You should not be arguing in front of our soldiers. Ignore each other, take another walk, do whatever you have to—I’m going to bed.”

He turns and heads for one of the tents, satisfied when he doesn’t hear the bickering start up again by the time he’s laid down his head and staring up wearily at the ceiling of his tent.

Whether sleep will come to him at all is uncertain, particularly when he hears the chatter of the camp die down as the nightly routine of guard shifts rotates and his companions each leave to their own tents as well.

Arthur hears Varric come into their shared tent about an hour later than Cassandra and Solas, and predictably, he’s asleep faster than Arthur who stays wide awake.

The cause of his sleeplessness is not so easily defined as nightmares lurking in the corner of his eyes. It’s a feeling of foreboding tight in his chest, the way his thoughts tumble out of control and he thinks of every mistake he has made so far, every way in which he has failed and every way he could still fail.

His body is exhausted, but his mind refuses to rest, not until it’s forced to succumb from sheer mental fatigue.

And when he wakes again fitfully the next morning, sweat-covered with fists clenched into his sheets as he feels the echoes of Corypheus breathing his cruel laugh onto the back of Arthur’s neck, then Varric is the only one that’s surprised by it.

* * *

_A continuation of the letter:_

> **As I recall, his older brother Regulus was always off ducking his responsibilities as heir to the bannorn at every opportunity, spending his time in melee tournaments where he took great joy in humiliating many nobleborn sons and daughters. Caused quite a few incidents back in the day, though I suppose this was to be a forewarning to us all; he ended up becoming one of the youngest winners of the Grand Tourney not a month into his twentieth year.**
> 
> **But Arcelia’s presence cannot be overstated—indeed, among the three of them, I would go so far as to say hers has an influence that stretches far and wide across the social scene of the Free Marches. Her amiability as a child quickly evolved into political savvy once she discovered how to use it to her advantage. There is scarcely an heir that does not owe Arcelia a favor, hardly a Chantry mother that does not know her name; the future of Ostwick lies in the palm of her hand.**
> 
> **Yet neither of them ever left their younger brother behind. One would think, flourishing as they were in their respective areas, that they would have no patience for a thirdborn sibling who was allowed a freedom that neither of them were permitted. Instead, the three of them were often inseparable whenever they found the opportunity to spend time together.**
> 
> **I daresay I would not be surprised if Regulus and Arcelia found their way to Haven, if only to support their dear brother.**
> 
> **Andraste help us all if they do.**

* * *

The flat end of the file scrapes gently across the round of her nail, sculpting its edges into proper form. All the rage in Val Royeaux as Arcelia understands, tools of pumice stone to gently shape the whites into something softer; it would not do for her to fall behind the latest trends, not with sharks circling the waters.

The doors to her bedroom burst open.

“ _Maker willing I will return to you within a year_ ,” Regulus recites from a letter in his hand that he’s angrily waving around, the green of his eyes set alight; truly a bull who can only see red whenever he’s caught up in one of his rages. “Within a year!”

Arcelia delicately puts her nail file onto the table of her vanity and turns to her brother with her hands folded across her lap, regarding his fury with patience as her gaze meets his, the green in her eyes far calmer than his.

“I assume you’ve heard from Arthur?”

Regulus’ upper lip curls into a sneer, flashing teeth as he thrusts the letter into her arms and starts to pace up and down her room like a caged animal. “I knew we should’ve never let him go. His first trip out of the Marches and he thinks he’s been crowned the bloody savior of Thedas—he’s lost his mind!”

She watches his restless ravings and his nervous fidgeting as he swipes his fingers through his hair and combs his tousled brown tresses back, a nervous tick. Whatever is in this letter must be serious if it has Regulus shaken.

Arcelia begins to read, and with every line her finely-shaped black brows arch higher and higher upon her forehead until they can go no further.

‘ _I am the only one who can close these rifts that keep spawning these monsters who go on to terrorize the innocent, spreading farther and wider while leaving nothing but ruin and destruction in their wake. If something is not done the chaos will surely reach the Free Marches, and so I must act.’_

Oh, Arthur.

“Do you see now?” Regulus demands when she slowly lowers the letter to her lap, spending a moment to breathe; to take it all in. “It’s utter madness!”

Arcelia closes her eyes.

“What would you have us do?” she asks as she swallows back her own fear and looks up to face the one written plainly in Regulus’ expression, past the anger and the indignation. “Drag him back home by his hair?”

“If need be, yes!” Regulus regards her steady stare and the harsh line in his broad shoulders deflates somewhat as he exhales his tension, rubbing at the scruff around his mouth. “He wants to fight _demons_ , Celia. You’ve heard the stories, especially of these holes in the sky calling forth Maker knows what—not even the most hardened templars want to deal with these monsters, and yet Artie wants to face them down on his own? We have to- _I_ have to…”

He trails off but she can see the idea building behind his eyes, and her fingers tighten around the parchment of the letter clenched tight in her hands. “Regulus, do not forget that you are father’s heir.”

Regulus lowers himself down on the edge of her bed, not meeting her gaze. 

“I can’t leave him to face this by himself,” Regulus says, a deep wrinkle between his brows before his lips twitch and a ghost of a smile passes through. “Do you remember the first time mother took him out hunting?”

Arcelia sighs; it would be impossible to forget. The three of them had been in their teenage years at the time, Regulus already well-used to swinging a sword at nineteen and Arcelia memorizing every step of dance at fourteen, while Arthur—at the tender age of twelve—had scarcely touched a bow before, let alone practiced with one.

“I’ve never seen a child cry for so long.”

“Mother meant to teach him how to shoot deer,” Regulus recounts. “But then he saw the dead rabbit caught in a hunter’s trap and—”

“He burst into tears.” Arcelia nods, still able to recall the sound of her younger brother sniffling as he clung to her hand, small shoulders shaking as he turned away from the dead rabbit and its blood-stained white fur. “Father felt so bad he did not allow mother take him hunting again for two more years, and Arthur refused to eat meat for _weeks_.”

Regulus looks up to meet her eyes. “And _that’s_ the boy you want to let fight a horde of demons?”

“He’s not a boy anymore,” Arcelia replies, though she knows it’s a weak argument.

Arthur has always been sensitive to the suffering of others; how would he fare when faced with the types of horrors that demons leave behind? Arcelia has never seen one herself, but she has heard the stories from Kirkwall.

Abominations in the streets, insane mages and power-crazed templars, innocents slain on both sides… imagining Arthur in the midst of a bloodbath like that makes her heart constrict in fear for him.

But to put Regulus there as a shield, sacrificing one brother for the other’s sake?

“If you were to die—”

“I won’t.”

Regulus is no longer the child that would try to escape the Chantry services either, no longer the child always sleeping through his etiquette lessons and terrorizing the manor’s staff by playing hide and seek until his father was on the verge of fainting from worry.

She can see the weight of it bearing down on him now, a lesson carved by the scars lined into the right side of his face; one crossing down his brow and sparing his eye to resume below his lower lash line, splitting into two branches on his cheek like a strike of lightning etched into his face; the other a smaller scar struck down his chin like an afterthought.

“You are determined to go?” Arcelia asks softly, already well aware of his answer.

“Nothing will happen to me,” Regulus promises her. “To either of us.”

Arcelia’s lips curve slowly, stretching into a faint smile as she carefully folds Arthur’s letter up again.

She knows what she must do just as clearly as he.

“I know,” she says. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Regulus’ eyes go wide. “Celia—”

“Don’t,” Arcelia warns him, and his lips snap shut. “I could not live with myself if… well, I can’t let you cause a diplomatic incident, can I?”

That coaxes a laugh out of him, as short and fleeting as it is. “You do know that father might actually die of a stroke once he finds out, don’t you?”

“He has mother,” Arcelia reasons, even though she can already sense the onset of guilt settling between the gaps of her rib cage of causing her parents such worry. “She’ll keep him sane.”

Besides, even in the case that all three of Bann Julius Trevelyan’s children were to perish, there were plenty of cousins, uncles and aunts able to succeed him in their stead and keep the title within the family—not that this would be much of a consolation to their parents.

Even so, Arthur needs her and Regulus by his side even if he is too proud to admit it, and so they will be there for him, supporting him and keeping him safe in whatever way they can.

Demons and monsters be damned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case anyone's interested in a visual reference, here's some screenshots for what the trevelyan siblings look like and the type of clothes they wear: arthur ([1](https://static.tumblr.com/vyph7zg/715pejrts/arthur1.png), [2](https://static.tumblr.com/vyph7zg/lWVpfsbby/arthur2.png), [3](https://static.tumblr.com/vyph7zg/iMopejrty/arthur3.png)) arcelia ([1](https://static.tumblr.com/vyph7zg/pZnpefx0t/arcelia1.png), [2](https://static.tumblr.com/vyph7zg/7l0pefx11/arcelia2.png), [3](https://static.tumblr.com/vyph7zg/gtqpefx1b/arcelia3.png)) and regulus ([1](https://static.tumblr.com/vyph7zg/aHNpefx1k/reggie1.png), [2](https://static.tumblr.com/vyph7zg/9p7pefx1s/reggie2.png), [3](https://static.tumblr.com/vyph7zg/VQJpefx1y/reggie3.png))


	4. blood and water

“For once,” Carver hears his brother yell over the sound of the shrieking Rage demon as a cold gust of frost sweeps across the battlefield, “for _once_ I would like to get through my day without having something trying to kill me! Is that too much to ask?”

Carver is tempted to agree with the sentiment as he heaves his sword upwards, muscles in both arms flexing as his blade cuts through the air on the downswing that cleaves a shade demon nearly in half.

A flash of green on his left pulls his attention, just in time for him to catch Merrill’s magic sprouting thick, dark roots from the ground to catch a Despair demon, coiling around it and pinning it to the ground as the demon wails so loudly Carver actually winces from the sound.

As if on cue Fenris darts across the grass toward the demon with ridiculous speed, thrusting the tip of his two-handed sword through the demon’s chest, his lyrium tattoos glowing bright.

Carver turns away from the kill just in time to see Garrett smash the heavy blade of his staff through the Rage demon that he froze moments before, shattering it as its shards scatter across the ground.

Then he turns to Carver and asks with a grave look, “Do I have blood on my beard?”

Carver sighs.

“Would you trust me if I said no?”

Garret rubs at his chin in thought before answering, “Probably not.”

Evidently, even a decade of misery in Kirkwall has done nothing to quell Garrett’s obnoxiously persistent sense of humor.

“The fur of your mantle is singed,” Fenris remarks blandly as he returns his sword to his back, walking toward the edges of the snowy woodland clearing they’ve found themselves in, likely to make sure there aren’t any more demons waiting in ambush.

“Dammit,” Garrett mutters underneath his breath as he inspects the damage, putting his staff away and plucking at the bits of burnt fur. “Not again.”

“I’m telling you, that thing is way too flammable,” Carver tells him.

“Well, I can hardly throw it out,” Garrett replies with a grin, clearly not taking Carver’s concern seriously—as always. “It would mess up my whole outfit.”

Fenris snorts from where he stands by the trees. “Maker forbid the Champion be caught looking unfashionable.”

“Exactly.”

Carver pinches the bridge of his nose as he tries not to snap in reply to his brother’s cheerful nonsense, then is briefly distracted when he sees Merrill walk up—or rather, _skip_ —to his brother’s side and look at the burnt patch of fur on his shoulder.

“It’s not so bad!” she says, valiantly trying to mitigate the damage. “I mean, it looks a little dead, and it kind of smells awful… but you hardly notice it’s there! Unless you- have eyes, I suppose.”

Garrett arches his brows. “As always, Merrill, you know just what to say to make me feel better.”

“Oh, you’re very welcome!” Merrill answers sincerely, beaming up at him.

“We should really get going before more demons find us,” Carver interrupts, wise enough not to let the conversation continue to spare himself a headache. “How much farther until we get to Haven?”

They did have horses before, but unfortunately those were killed or fled once the demons started popping up all over the blasted place.

“Half a day, maybe,” Merrill estimates, glancing at Garrett’s burnt fur. “I hope they have someone who can fix that for you.”

“I thought you said it wasn’t that bad?” Garrett says with a frown, though the playful pull at his lips betrays his humor; too subtle for Merrill to catch, who starts to stammer.

“Um, I just, I meant—”

“Haven!” Carver all but yells.

“Right, Haven.” Garrett turns to Fenris. “All clear?”

“For now,” Fenris mutters, walking back to rejoin them as he trudges through the snow though he looks entirely unaffected by the cold, much like Merrill.

It’s an odd group Carver finds himself in, though not unlike the days he used to follow Garrett around during their first years in Kirkwall before Carver joined the templars.

With the craze of red lyrium having overtaken the city, however, he couldn’t stay there a moment longer. Garrett reached out to him, and while Guard-Captain Aveline offered to help Carver get away from the Free Marches, Garrett summarily refused her and insisted on aiding Carver’s escape himself, even at risk of his own life.

Carver very nearly chewed him out for that stunt. Had the templars found Garrett, particularly the ones hopped up on red lyrium… Carver doesn’t even want to think about what might have happened.

The two of them ended up in hiding, already out of the Free Marches and back within the borders of Ferelden when news of the Conclave explosion hit. Had Garrett not decided keeping Carver safe was his responsibility, he probably would’ve headed to Haven straight away to check up on Varric.

Instead they kept laying low and Garrett opted to try and find out more about the red lyrium problem, even going so far as to ask an acquaintance within the Grey Wardens—Stroud, if Carver recalls correctly—if he knew anything more.

Stroud seemed far more concerned about another issue to do with Grey Wardens, however, and as if that wasn’t bad enough they then received a letter from Varric informing them that Corypheus somehow made a comeback and was not only behind the attack on the Conclave, but was also the cause of Grey Wardens disappearing by the dozens.

When Garrett heard the news he was— _stupidly_ —planning on going to Haven by himself. Of course, that plan never went anywhere considering Carver immediately sent his own letter to Garrett’s friends back in Kirkwall, which is how they ended up with Fenris and Merrill joining them and demanding to be taken along.

Carver is grateful for it; despite his brother’s inability to take anything seriously on the surface, in truth he has a savior complex the size of Thedas and isn’t nearly careful enough with his own life.

He glances up at the sky and he can see it in the distance, a hole torn open through the clouds glaring down at the earth like the eye of the Maker.

When he looks to his brother standing beside him, he finds Garrett’s gaze fixated on the hole in the sky just as Carver’s was a moment ago, his expression uncharacteristically grave and his warm amber eyes narrowed against the bright light glittering off the bed of snow covering the mountains.

Carver looks back toward the sky with a sigh. “What’s that dwarf gotten us mixed up in this time?”

“Somehow, I doubt any of us could’ve avoided this even if we tried,” Garrett replies as he finally tears his gaze away and starts walking ahead, Fenris and Merrill following him after exchanging looks with each other as Carver lingers behind for a brief moment.

As much as he hates to admit it, his brother has a point there. How do you run from something like this, let alone  _fix_ it? It doesn’t seem possible.

Hopefully, Haven will have answers for them.

* * *

By the time they’ve returned to Haven Arthur is just about ready to fall off his horse and very nearly does precisely that, were it not for Cassandra catching his arm and steadying him on the dismount.

She glances at Solas—who gives a minute shake of his head at which Arthur almost feels betrayed but then again, what else is new with Solas?—before she turns back to Arthur.

“The meeting can wait,” Cassandra says to him, the grip of her hand strong on his shoulder. “You need rest; we will convene afterwards.”

Arthur almost wants to protest, but as he opens his mouth Cassandra gives him a stern look and he snaps his lips shut again, shoulders sagging in defeat.

“Fine,” he agrees, feeling a supportive pat on the back that belongs to Varric as he passes Arthur on his way out the stables. “Just- wake me up if you need anything.”

“If there is an emergency we will let you know,” Cassandra assures him as she all but directs him toward the village gates and Arthur tries not to feel _too_ put out by being essentially sent to bed like a child at age eight-and-twenty or… however old he is now mentally, taking into account the failed cycles.

She’s right, after all. He’ll be no use to the Inquisition if he collapses from fatigue, and after the week he’s had in the Hinterlands he feels himself nearing that threshold very quickly.

Arthur hands over his horse, a chestnut Fereldan Forder, to the stable boy to handle it for him. He hasn’t even named it yet and likely never will, considering Arthur and horses operate on a strictly professional basis.

When he was a young boy having his first riding lessons, a Free Marches Charger his mother made him ride threw him off the saddle; he’s never been able to warm up to a horse since.

He follows Varric’s tracks through the snow to the village gates, leaving Cassandra and Solas behind in the stables. They both seem much more invested in taking care of their mounts themselves while Varric shares Arthur’s opinion on the topic, though his is a general disdain for nature and not due to unfortunate childhood riding accidents.

Arthur heads for the gates, throwing a cursory glance toward the fields where the Inquisition’s budding army is training its soldiers with several ongoing spars.

He expects to see Cullen standing among the soldiers, which he isn’t, so Arthur’s gaze shifts to the templar Lynette instead. She often helps with training the recruits and she’s rather pleasant to talk to.

Except she seems rather preoccupied with a woman.

This shouldn’t be surprising considering there are plenty female soldiers present, except _this_ particular woman isn’t wearing any armor.

In fact, Arthur can very much make out the expensive fabrics of her clothes, a black top embroidered with gold which she wears underneath a long, dark cloak lined with black fur that looks familiar. The darker colors and tight attire reminds him very much of—

“Arthur?”

Having stopped to stare at Lynette and the woman he’s speaking with, Arthur barely noticed the tall figure of a man approaching him until he hears his name, spoken with a voice that’s so achingly familiar that for a moment, Arthur freezes completely.

It feels like it should be a dream, but when he turns his eyes on the man standing before him, there’s no denying it.

A kind gaze in a shock of green eyes, tousled brown hair forever untamed, a scar shaped like a lightning strike.  

His brother.

“Regulus?” Arthur croaks, the sky spinning around him.

For a moment Regulus lurches forward as if he wants to embrace Arthur but stops himself mid-step once he realizes Arthur isn’t moving a muscle, petrified among racing thoughts.

This wasn’t part of the plan, why is he here? Was it because of the letter Arthur sent weeks ago? He shouldn’t be here. _He can’t be here._

Panic digs its claws through his chest, in between the gaps of his ribs.

“You can’t be here,” Arthur says before he can stop himself, face drained of color and his hands starting to tremble from more than just the cold. “You- you shouldn’t have come.”

Regulus looks at him as if Arthur struck him in the face.

“What are you talking about?” he says, eyes wide in confusion and worry as he steps closer and grips at both of Arthur’s shoulders. “Maker, what happened to you? You look as pale as a ghost, you’ve even lost weight…”

The thoughts keep coming and Arthur can’t stop them, rolling bigger and bigger and turning more frantic once they get going.

What if he fails again? It didn’t feel _real_ before, these endless loops, but seeing his brother here feels like someone doused him with a bucket of cold water, running it down his back.

Is he going to have to watch his brother die, like he did his friends, like he did everyone else?

“I’m—” Arthur closes his eyes, anchored by Regulus’ hands holding him steady as he takes a deep breath, tries to calm his mind before he loses control and spirals into a panic attack. “I’m… I’m alright.”

“You don’t look alright,” he hears Regulus say, hands squeezing briefly around his shoulders. “You don’t even _sound_ alright.”

Arthur had no idea just how much he ached to hear his brother’s voice until then, the familiar deep tones more soothing than Regulus could ever know, and yet his presence is just as alarming as it is comforting.

He should have known his letter would cause this; he carelessly put his family in danger, all because he insisted on being selfish.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur apologizes once he’s certain he has a handle on his emotions again, opening his eyes to meet his brother’s stare and it still doesn’t quite feel real to be seeing him here, to feel the warmth of his hands that always used to ruffle his hair growing up. “You came all this way to see me and I should be glad, and I am, but… part of me wishes you hadn’t.”

Regulus quirks his brows. “Because you think we’ll be in danger?”

“ _We_?” Arthur repeats sharply.

A polite cough from his left nearly makes him jump and suddenly Arcelia is standing there, in that cloak that Arthur recognized before, somehow managing to be silent even inches deep in snow.

She still looks the same, cat-green eyes and an ever-lingering faint smile on her lips, locks of black hair that have escaped from her bun swaying gently in the wind as the sun casts a shine on her bronzed skin.

“Hello, Arthur,” she greets him warmly, though he can see her eyes flitting over his face and his body, accounting for the damage.

“Father let you go?” Arthur questions, starting to feel a bit dizzy as he looks from one sibling to the other. “Both of you?”

If anything happens to them, if any harm befalls them because Arthur unwittingly drew them here… he’ll never forgive himself.

“Of course not,” Arcelia answers. “He threw quite the fit, but he understood after mother calmed him down. Neither of them wanted you to go through this alone, though they weren’t exactly thrilled at our leaving.”

Arthur nods distantly, trying to get a grip on what he’s feeling. It’s all a tangled knot inside his chest and he can’t separate the threads, his heart hammering and his head burning hot, his knees weak and his fingers shaking.

“So,” Regulus says, “can I hug you now, or…?”

He asks so tentatively that Arthur can’t help but laugh—a sound that almost turns into a sob as he all but collapses against Regulus’ chest, wrapping his arms tight around his back as he clings to Regulus’ gray cloak.

It’s been so long since he last hugged his brother, since he last hugged _anyone_.

“You’re alright,” Regulus murmurs against his hair as he holds Arthur without judgment and Arthur feels Arcelia’s hand rubbing calmingly between his shoulder blades and Maker, Arthur had no idea how much he needed this. “We’ve got you, Artie.”

He must look pathetic, Arthur thinks. They have no idea what he’s been through, what he’s seen, what he’s been made to endure again and again and again. He must look like a child to them, falling apart in less than two months, yet in the moment he can’t bring himself to care.

Years in lifetimes erased from history, spent struggling alone in the dark.

Arthur finally has his family back.

* * *

He looks like her brother and he sounds like her brother, but something about the way he holds himself, the way he speaks, has changed. Like a stranger slipped into his skin and stole his voice and she can barely recognize the person underneath.

“You’re not angry at us?” Arcelia asks, veiling her concern behind caution as she sits on an armchair in Arthur’s personal cabin, Regulus having taken the only wooden chair by the desk and Arthur sitting on the edge of his bed.

“No, of course not, I—” Arthur cuts himself off, manages an unsteady smile and for a moment Arcelia thinks she sees his eyes shine in the glow of the candlelight. “I’ve missed you both, very much.”

Regulus’ eyes widen and even Arcelia can’t prevent her brows arching in surprise as they both stare at him, taken aback by the sincere response.

The Arthur she knew was reclusive with his feelings, would rather not voice them out loud if he could help it, but it’s not just that. The confidence he carries himself with, how he doesn’t shrink away from eye-contact anymore like he used to, his posture tall and shoulders straight… one of these changes would’ve been remarkable.

All of them together?

“It’s not been so long since we last saw each other,” she remarks, though it only makes her wonder what could’ve possibly happened within a month to transform her little brother into this strange and unfamiliar man. “I was certain you would be upset.”

“As was I,” Regulus admits. “You never liked being babied.”

Arthur laughs and even this sound is different now; louder and fuller, a little bit harsher, no longer subdued. “Is that why you’re here, to baby me?”

She exchanges a look with Regulus who, unlike her, does nothing to disguise the confusion and the worry on his face.

“No,” Arcelia answers, reclining back into her seat as she threads her fingers together and considers the stranger sitting across from her. “We’re here to support you.”

“Oh?”

This situation requires a different perspective. Arthur has clearly changed from the young man she knew a month ago who still hadn’t found his footing, not to mention that he is _more_ than just her brother now. She must look at him and see not the boy weeping for a rabbit lying dead at his feet, but someone whose voice carries across a continent.

“You know what I can do,” Arcelia says, crossing a leg over the other as she regards Arthur the same she would any other client. “Use my talents as you see fit.”

Regulus stares at her, bewildered, while Arthur looks amused and almost fond.

This isn’t something that would have amused the Arthur she knew; he never liked her profession, and the idea of asking her to kill someone for him would’ve unnerved him before. The way _this_ Arthur accepts it, the look in his eyes as he calculates, is almost disturbing. 

“It’s that easy, then?” Arthur questions, eyes narrowing slightly and his humor disappearing as he tests the waters. “I tell you to jump, and you jump?”

“If you’re asking me as the Herald of Andraste, then yes.”

Arthur nods, silent as his eyes drift off to the side while he thinks—at least that habit of a wandering gaze has remained the same.

“You’d work best with Leliana,” Arthur decides finally, gaze moving back to her face once he’s done thinking, “though your connections would be very useful to Josephine as well. Speak with both of them as soon as you can.”

“Just like that?” Regulus questions, a frown building on his face.

“I’m not the same person you knew a month ago,” Arthur responds, voicing Arcelia’s thoughts without blinking an eye as he gets up from his bed. “I know this must feel jarring, but if you really want to help then you’ll trust me to do my job.”

Arcelia can see the muscle of Regulus’ jaw work beneath his skin; the oldest Trevelyan has never liked having someone tell him what to do. Arcelia and Arthur were always the exception, and if anything Regulus—being the oldest by five years—has always spoiled his younger siblings rotten and catered to their every whim growing up.

But she’s uncertain how he’ll do in the context of an actual hierarchy within a formal organization, especially when he’s convinced Arthur’s safety is at risk. Regulus loves being a walking contradiction of a careless and detached rebel and an overprotective, overly-attached brother, and she trusts that he’ll overcome those impulses eventually, but…

Well, it’s always a gamble with Regulus.

She meets his eyes from across the room and tilts her head just so; Regulus takes the hint and sighs deeply, rubbing the back of his neck as his posture eases.

“This is not how I was expecting things to go.”

Arthur flashes a smile, some innate shyness to it; a hint of the old Arthur peeking through. “You’ll get used to it.”

Regulus nods, seeming resigned for the moment. “What do you need from me?”

“Don’t worry,” Arthur assures him, “I know you like a hands-on approach, so you’ll accompany me out in the field.”

Regulus exhales in relief. “As long as I get to hit things with a big sword.”

“There will be a _lot_ of things to hit with a big sword, I promise.” Arthur gets up from his chair, absently brushing some dust off his sleeve. “Now, I did have a meeting to get to before the two of you ambushed me—”

“It wasn’t an _ambush_ ,” Regulus sputters in protest.

Arcelia arches a brow. “You did nearly tackle him to the ground, Regulus.”

“I was excited to see him!”

“What are you, a dog?”

Arthur coughs into his fist, trying to hide his smile behind it. “Yes, well, I’ll inform the others that you’re here. You should meet them when you have the time, particularly Leliana, Josephine, Cullen and Cassandra.”

He gives them a brief description as to where they can find what appears to be the Inquisition’s leadership, adding some mentions of his other two companions, an elven apostate named Solas and—

“Varric Tethras?” Regulus repeats, shocked at the mention of one of his favorite authors. “You’re friends with _Varric Tethras_?”

“Regulus,” Arthur says with a long-suffering look, “please don’t ask him for an autograph.”

Regulus looks outraged by the very notion. “I wasn’t going to!”

Arcelia exchanges a skeptical look with Arthur, which pulls her attention back to the shadows underneath his eyes.

“Perhaps you should rest,” Arcelia suggests gently. “You only just returned from a rather long journey, as I understand—”

“I’m fine, really,” Arthur assures her, rather unconvincingly considering he still looks gaunt and pale and like he’s starting to thin out. “I couldn’t sleep now even if I wanted to; it’s better if I get this over with… though Cassandra’s not going to like it.”

“Then maybe this Cassandra has the right idea,” Regulus chimes in.

“Regulus,” Arthur starts wearily, and Regulus raises his hands placatingly.

“Just making sure you remember to look after yourself.”

 Arthur looks like he wants to argue, but seems too tired even for that as he gives up and changes the subject.

“In any case,” he says as he heads for the door, pulling it open to let in a cold breeze of air, “I’ll be busy with the meeting for about an hour or so, possibly longer. Come find me at the tavern afterwards, and…”  

He pauses on his doorstep and looks over his shoulder at them. “I’m… I’m glad you’re both here.”

Arcelia catches the soft tremor in his voice, but Arthur’s gone before either she or Regulus can say anything else, the door falling shut behind him.

The silence he leaves behind seems to stretch on for a long time, until Regulus is finally the one to break it.

“I don’t like this, Celia.”

Arcelia shakes her head. “I know you enjoy indulging in your role as guardian to your younger siblings, but—”

“It’s not that.” Regulus corrects himself when Arcelia gives him a look. “It’s not _just_ that. Artie’s different, you can see just as well as I do how much he’s changed. It’s like looking at a different person.”

Arcelia looks away, a troubled expression flitting across her face. “I can’t deny that, but if this is what Arthur truly wants to do…”

“Have you even looked into any of these Inquisition people?” Regulus questions. “How can we trust that they’re not just using him in some sort of scheme to overthrow the Chantry?”

“You surprise me, Regulus,” Arcelia comments with nonchalance, settling back into her usual easygoing composure when alone (safe) with her family. “I always thought you despised the Chantry.”

He certainly wouldn’t be caught dead inside one; Arcelia could never convince him to attend the services with her.

“I do, but that doesn’t mean that trading one corrupt institution for a newer, shinier one is the answer,” Regulus replies passionately, having never made a secret of his disdain where the Chantry is concerned. “Come on, Celia, you know your history better than I do, you know what the original Inquisition stood for! What if they’re taking advantage of him?”

Arcelia taps her fingernails on the armrest of her chair. She can’t say the thought hasn’t crossed her mind, but Arthur doesn’t behave as someone who was coerced into a cult does; none of the people here do.

Then again, first impressions can mean very little.

“Do you doubt him that much?” Arcelia says finally, and Regulus looks conflicted. “Forgive me for saying so, brother, but you are known for having a tendency to overreact.”

He gets that from their father, she thinks.

“Oh, crucify me for being worried, why don’t you!” Regulus exclaims, dramatically throwing his hands up in the air as he rises from his seat and walks to the windows of the cabin, staring out to the snow-covered streets of Haven with crossed arms. “He looks like he’s been through hell and back, and I just… I want him to be safe. What else am I supposed to do?”

“Not undermining him in front of people who look up to him would be an acceptable start,” Arcelia answers wryly, coaxing a laugh out of her brother.

“Point made.” Regulus looks at her from over his shoulder. “So, you’re back to being an assassin?”

“I’ll be whatever Arthur needs me to be,” Arcelia answers pointedly, and Regulus winces with some shame.

“You really don’t have to rub it in my face.”

Arcelia smiles sweetly. “What’s the point of being the superior sibling if I can’t flaunt it?”

“A barrel full of laughs you are, Lady Trevelyan.” Regulus pauses. “Laughs and condescension.”

She gets up from her chair, smoothing out the fabric of her blouse and tucking loose strands of hairs behind her ear. “Well, I think it’s time to get better acquainted with these _Inquisition people_ , as you so graciously referred to them.”

“Making the rounds already?”

“Naturally,” Arcelia replies as she picks up her cloak where she draped it over her chair and pulls it around her shoulders, fastening the rope. “I need to see for myself whether they’re fit to be taking care of my little brother. Unless you have something better to do?”

Regulus flashes a lopsided grin. “I’ll let you go first; I need to go sort out where to put all of our stuff.”

“A sensible plan,” Arcelia agrees. “I’ll see you at the tavern, then.”

She heads back out into Haven’s cold, wintery fields of snow and closes the door behind her.

Of course, the moment she exits she gets a few curious looks here and there from people who see her leave the Herald’s cabin. Doubtlessly the Inquisition’s spymaster already has someone watching her; the Left Hand of the Divine has chosen her agents well for Arcelia not to have spotted them yet, but she expected nothing less.

As she walks through the streets up the stone stairs towards Haven’s Chantry to get a feeling of the town’s size and a general overview, she hears the unmistakable commotion of a crowd of people angrily shouting and yelling over each other in the distance.

Sure enough, as she climbs the last step and the hem of her cloak trails behind her, she spots a large gathering congregated in front of Haven’s very Chantry.

There are two men at the center, one clad in armor and the other dressed as a cleric of some sort, exchanging words.

“I’m curious, Commander, as to how your Inquisition and its _Herald_ will restore order as you’ve promised,” the bureaucrat, presumably Chancellor Roderick, says to the man who must be Commander Cullen, the Inquisition’s military general.

In reply, the Commander all but sneers. “Of course you are.”

Arcelia watches him diffuse the situation as she hangs back among the crowd, observing with interest as he orders everyone back to their duties. It speaks well of him that people disperse as quickly as they do; he commands respect, evidently more than the Chancellor does.

But the fact that there is such friction within the Inquisition is a little troubling. Nothing unusual for such an organization that is still so very young, but the circumstances in which it was formed are so dire that if they’re not careful, the Chantry could end up swallowing them whole.

The two men enter in a discussion once the onlookers have mostly left, Commander Cullen standing in front of the Chantry as if a suit of immovable armor stationed there by a king, while Chancellor Roderick—surprisingly—tries to appeal to him.

“We require a proper authority to guide them back to order,” Arcelia catches the Chancellor say as she casually trails along the edges of their space, curious to see how the Commander might handle this.

“Who, you?” the Commander challenges. “Random clerics who weren’t important enough to be at the Conclave?”

De-escalation tactics aside, clearly the Commander does not suffer fools.

“The rebel Inquisition and its so-called _Herald of Andraste_?” the Chancellor fires back. “I think not.”

Arcelia glances toward the agents and workers stationed by the tents outside of the Chantry, still within earshot of the conversation. Not a good look, and the Commander seems too caught up in his argument to pay attention to the minutiae—although perhaps her subsequent interference, she admits, is also in part because of the way Roderick spat out _Herald of Andraste_ , as if the words were filth on his tongue.

The moment she sees an opening in the conversation, the Commander narrowing his eyes and considering his response in silence, Arcelia smoothly steps toward them and does her best impression of her great-aunt Lucille.

“Oh my, what a stir!” she declares with a touch of Orlesian flair added on top, gesturing grandly but elegantly with her hand and her voice ringing high and loud as the two man startle at her sudden intrusion. “Truly, I could hear you arguing from a mile away!”

She catches Roderick glancing at her clothes, then clearing his throat. “My apologies, my lady, we did not mean to disturb you.”

Whereas Chancellor Roderick catches onto her social status rather quickly, she finds Commander Cullen simply staring as a frown forms between his brows in poorly-disguised annoyance.

Arcelia ignores him for the moment and turns to the Chancellor.

“That is quite alright, my dear,” she says, patting him on the arm with a touch of denigration. “But I was hoping someone could help me sort out my belongings; it’s been a truly _horrid_ journey through these mountains and I am in _such_ desperate need of a place for my—”

“Ah, yes,” Roderick says hastily, cutting her off as it is clearly not his first time fielding such questions from nobility. “Well, I am certain the Commander can be of assistance. If you’ll excuse me, I must attend to my duties.”

Arcelia watches him go and turns to the Commander, who looks absolutely _sour_ as he glares after Roderick who quickly retreats into the Chantry before turning to address her with obvious reluctance.

“My lady, I'm sure our ambassador is much more suited to tend to your needs,” Cullen answers stiffly, looking wholly uncomfortable.

She cannot help it; she laughs.

“Why, Commander!” she continues her charade, tilting her head and batting her pretty lashes at him and it is so delightful to watch someone become genuinely flushed rather than the coy games the nobility play amongst each other. “You seem like a perfectly capable sort of man, dare I say—surely handling a bit of luggage would be a simple enough task?”

Cullen looks stuck between being flustered and irritated, perhaps a little bewildered that someone would actually think to ask the general of an army to handle their bags for them.

“Or perhaps should we argue about it in public?” Arcelia questions, shifting her posture to straighten her cocked hip and no longer tilting her head in a clueless way, her voice lowered to its usual quiet tone and the surprise is plastered all over his face. “Perhaps the Chancellor might actually take your side, this time.”

The realization of her little act sets in quick and he breaks out into a smile, albeit it a brief one, passing quickly across his lips.

“Well played,” Cullen commends, inclining his head. “I should not have responded to him, but…”

“He is rather good at stirring up the pot,” Arcelia remarks pensively, glancing toward the Chantry doors as she wonders whether the Chancellor actually warrants any concern at all. “You did well in scattering the crowd, Commander, though I’m afraid in public disputes like these, gossip will travel regardless.”

“True enough, though I appreciate you intervening when you did,” Cullen says, interest bright in his eyes now as he considers her seriously. “You have my thanks, Lady…?”

“Arcelia,” she answers. “Arcelia Trevelyan.”

He frowns slightly, this time in thought rather than annoyance as he studies her face, likely trying to place how closely she might be related to Arthur. “You are related to the Herald, then?”

“I’m his older sister, in fact.”

Cullen appears surprised; Arthur must not have told him about her and Regulus’ arrival yet.

“Forgive me,” he says, “I wasn’t told you would be joining the Inquisition.”

Arcelia smiles mischievously. “Neither was Arthur.”

“Oh?” His expression turns amused, a subtle upturn of his lips and a gleaming in his honey-gold eyes that Arcelia finds rather charming. “How well did he take it?”

“Much better than I expected.”

Cullen hums. “I’m not so sure I would handle it well should one of my siblings show up on Haven’s doorstep.”

“Do you have an older sister?” Arcelia asks curiously, eyes falling briefly on the scar on his upper lip.

“I do, in fact.” He looks away, a little regretful or perhaps ashamed. “One I don’t write to nearly as often as I should.”

The sound of the Chantry doors opening jolt Arcelia out of the conversation as she quickly looks away from Cullen to the doors, which is rather unusual; it doesn’t happen often that she loses track of her surroundings.

“There you are!” A woman dressed in golden frills, likely ambassador Josephine Montilyet, stands in the doorway of the Chantry. “Forgive the intrusion, my lady—we’re all waiting for you in the war room.”

“My apologies, I was- distracted,” Cullen replies at length, glancing toward Arcelia. “I’ll be right there.”

The ambassador nods, graciously inclining her head toward Arcelia before retreating back into the Chantry.

“Duty calls, it would seem,” Arcelia says, meeting Cullen’s eyes again with a smile. “Another time?”

Cullen holds her gaze for a beat too long before he finally remembers to speak.

“I… yes, of course.” He hastily bows his head to her. “Lady Arcelia.”

“Commander Cullen.”

Arcelia watches Cullen pace away into the Chantry, almost a little hurried, and she stands there and reflects on his endearingly earnest manners for a short while before she turns around and walks toward the tavern, trying to remember where Arthur mentioned she could find the mage Solas and Varric Tethras.

She has a feeling her stay with the Inquisition is going to be an interesting one indeed.

* * *

“In summary,” Leliana says, a report sent by the agents Arthur recruited from the cult in the Winterwatch Tower clipped to a board she’s holding, eyes skimming the lines, “the rebel mages have been promised as indentured servants to the Tevinter Imperium, according to an arrangement made between the Magister Gereon Alexius and Grand Enchanter Fiona.”

This does not come as a surprise to Arthur or Cassandra and Leliana who are aware of his “gift”, but even so all his advisers are expressing various sentiments ranging from outrage to apprehension. 

“Have they gone mad?” Cullen exclaims, no longer able to contain his opinion. “How is signing themselves over to Tevinter supposed to make things better?”

“From what I’ve read in the report this deal was not put to a vote among the rebel mages,” Leliana muses. “Fiona apparently made the decision on their behalf; there are quite a number of mages afraid to speak out, and apparently none of them are being allowed to leave Redcliffe while the Magister manages them from the castle.”

Cassandra is, like Cullen, mostly on the ‘outrage’ part of the spectrum of emotions—even so, she takes a moment to breathe and stays calm.

“The Grand Enchanter has clearly lost all sense,” she says slowly, eyes narrowing, “but we cannot simply abandon the mages to Tevinter, especially those being forced into this.”

“I agree,” Josephine adds, a deep wrinkle between her brows. “If nothing else, this would be invaluable political leverage for the Imperium that we cannot allow them to wield.”

Arthur feels a yawn coming up and tightens his jaw, blinking several times when he feels his eyes tearing up as his advisers discuss possible solutions to the issue.

“Why has King Alistair not done anything about this yet?” Cassandra wonders, looking both frustrated and baffled by the monarch’s apparent inaction.

“It’s likely he realizes he cannot go in with force, and neither can we for that matter,” Cullen states. “The Magister would no doubt use the mages as hostages, not to mention that Redcliffe Castle has defenses that would resist any short-term assault on our part; we simply do not have the manpower.”

“Taking an army to confront a Magister would also be seen as an act of aggression towards Tevinter,” Josephine elaborates. “Particularly if it came from the King himself. Ferelden is still recovering from the Blight and is in no position to declare war on the Imperium.”

“Doubtlessly the Magister is aware of this as well and is taking advantage,” Leliana agrees. “This situation simply calls for a more delicate approach.”

That would be Arthur’s cue.

“I will go meet with this Magister,” he decides.

It gets him several looks of surprise and disapproval.

“By yourself?” Cullen crosses his arms, frowning at him. “That cannot be safe.”

Arthur laughs humorlessly. “Nothing about what we’re trying to do here is safe, Commander.”

“Even so, there’s no need to go out of your way to risk your life,” Cullen argues. “The situation in Redcliffe is dire, yes, but our priority should be to close the Breach, and you’ve done an excellent job in expanding the Inquisition’s influence. Perhaps approaching the templars would be the better option.”

Arthur resists the urge to sigh, staring down at the large map spread out over the war table instead.

This is always the dilemma; he has never managed to get both the mages and the templars on his side before, but then again, he has never had such a great start before either.

Cullen is right in that the power he has accrued for the Inquisition might be enough to persuade what’s left of the Order to the Inquisition’s side before they retreat to Therinfal Redoubt, but with the Envy demon still posing as Lord-Seeker Lucius it is still a rather big risk.

“I wish I had any idea of what was happening in Val Royeaux,” Cassandra says, “but with so many Seekers missing—”

Arthur’s eyes go wide.

“Caer Oswin!”

All eyes in the room dart toward him at his outburst.

“I’m sorry,” Josephine starts politely, “but what does Bann Loren’s castle have to do with this, exactly?”

“It’s- just something I remembered,” Arthur replies quickly, almost fumbling as his heart beats fast in his chest with excitement. “It’s about the missing Seekers.”

This is it.

This is how he recruits both the templars and the mages, and neutralizes the Chantry's threats in one fell swoop.

Cassandra, standing beside him, watches him like a hawk and Arthur meets her gaze with intent, hoping he can clue her into his meaning without having to tell Josephine and Cullen his semi-lie about having seen the future.

“I’d forgotten all about it with the mess between the templars and the mages,” Arthur explains to her, “but I’m certain I heard a rumor about someone _seeing_ a Seeker near Caer Oswin. If we could perhaps appeal to the other Seekers, we stand a far greater chance in convincing the templars to join us.”

He spots Cassandra’s eyes widen slightly at his admittedly heavy-handed hint, though it is Leliana who takes initiative.

“While you head to Redcliffe I will send my agents to investigate Caer Oswin,” the spymaster decides, hands folded around her back. “You should go see what the Magister has to say before we decide on a course of action.”

Arthur looks to Cullen.

The Commander doesn’t look entirely happy with the danger, but says, “I’m doubtful trying to play to both sides is going to work, but if you’re sure you can pull this off…”

“I’m sure,” Arthur says to him, for a rare moment able to be completely sincere and honest, and while Cullen still looks a bit reluctant he acquiesces with a nod of his head.

“Might I inquire where you heard this rumor?” Josephine asks curiously, just the question Arthur was hoping no one would bring up.

“I have relatives acquainted with Bann Loren,” Arthur gambles. “My- older brother and sister, they heard about it when they were travelling to Haven.”

Josephine considers him for a moment.

“I see,” she says. “I should like to meet them both.”  

“Of course,” Arthur replies hastily. “I think you’ll find my sister in particular has a wellspring of connections, albeit mainly among the nobility in the Free Marches.”

“You did not tell me about your siblings being in Haven,” Cassandra remarks, brows raised.

“I meant to,” Arthur says apologetically. “It just… it slipped my mind.”

Cassandra’s stare turns sharp, almost into a glare. “And you did not rest as I advised you to.”

Ironically, Arthur is too tired to feel guilty about it.

“We should move on with the meeting,” he says adamantly, and Cassandra seems unwilling to argue the point in front of the others.

Instead, she sighs. “As you wish.”

The meeting concludes a short hour later, spent discussing various reports concerning smaller matters and rather tedious logistics considering how many more people keep flocking toward Haven every day.

Arthur can barely keep his eyes open by the end of it, his anticipation for his newly formulated plan in handling the mages without alienating the templars keeping him awake as he heads straight for his cabin.

Neither Regulus nor Arcelia are there and Arthur faintly remembers telling them to find him in the tavern after his meeting, but as he collapses onto his bed with boots and all and his head sinks into his pillow, he thinks he won’t be able to keep that promise.

As he drifts into a much-needed slumber, for the first time in a long time, Arthur feels hopeful.

He’s going to unmask the Envy demon parading as Lord-Seeker Lucius, with all of Val Royeaux as his witness.  


	5. the name you wear

Varric sits at his usual table in the tavern, close to the entrance which affords him a rather good view on any interesting happenings should they occur.

Which, in this instance, is a man regaling a large group clustered around his table with a classic story of romance and adventure, his booming voice filling up the air and coaxing amused laughter and shocked gasps from his audience with the appropriate timing.

“…and so her brother laid a challenge at my feet,” Regulus Trevelyan says. “Face him in a duel to decide whether I was worthy of his sister’s affection, or swear to never see her again.”

“What did you so?” Flissa asks breathlessly, completely caught up in the story.

Threnn scoffs from beside her. “Let me guess: you fought him and won, got the girl and lived happily ever after?”

“Of course not,” Regulus replies, flashing a roguish grin. “I seduced _him_ instead.”

“No!” a Chantry sister gasps, scandalized and delighted at the same time.

“His sister and I were never in love; we were just fooling around,” Regulus reasons, hiding his grin behind his drink as he takes a short sip. “Truthfully, he was the better catch.”

“But how did you seduce him?” Adan asks, sitting across from him with a tall mug of ale in his hand. “Not sure I would take having the man who just shagged my sister flirting with me very well.”

“Oh, he was furious,” Regulus admits with a laugh. “But I could tell he was into me. So, I accepted his duel on the condition that we meet alone on neutral grounds, and since he was the honorable sort he actually kept his part of the bargain. We dueled, and things got a little… heated.”

“Did his sister find out?” Flissa presses urgently, as if not knowing the end of the story might actually kill her. “What did she say?”

“She didn’t mind, but decided it was best to end our little affair there,” Regulus answers truthfully. “I think her exact words were, _I’ve no interest in spreading my legs for a prick that’s already been in my brother’s—_ ”

Before he can finish his sentence a shadow appears by his shoulder out of nowhere, clamping a hand down on his shoulder.

It’s Arcelia, of course. She introduced herself to Varric earlier in the evening together with her brother, though he was quick to wander off and make even more new friends while Arcelia was content to linger at the table with Varric and share a quiet drink.

“Well, that’s enough vulgarity for one night,” Arcelia decides casually over the sounds of disappointment from his audience and Threnn’s shameless laughter as the quartermaster slaps Regulus on the shoulder.

“Trevelyan, you absolute dog!”

“Did you keep seeing him?” Flissa asks hopefully.

Regulus smiles apologetically and shakes his head. “He became betrothed to a noblewoman a short while after that and we parted ways.”

“Oh,” Flissa sighs, sad as the Chantry sister pats her on the back. “What a shame.”

“It was for the best,” Arcelia tells her. “I think you’ll find my brother’s attention span for his lovers is very short.”

Adan snickers into his drink.

Regulus casts his sister a mock-offended look. “I thought you said no more vulgarity?”

“I’m only stating the facts,” Arcelia replies with a good-natured smile as she lets go of his shoulder and returns to Varric’s table with a refilled cup,  sliding back into her chair across from his.

“You know,” Varric starts casually, “when you two walked up to me earlier and introduced yourselves as Wonderboy’s older brother and sister, I really wasn’t picturing this outcome. Which is a good thing, by the way. I was almost afraid you guys would turn things into a snoozefest around here.”

“Arthur was always the quietest—and cleverest—out of the three of us,” Arcelia says, gaze turning faraway as memories pass inside her eyes. “Regulus, he’s… well, you can see how he is. He sucks up all the presence in a room and hogs it for himself. Me? I like to think I’m subtler, but the nature of my clientele necessitates a certain amount of… prominence.”

Varric hums noncommittally, trying to memorize Arcelia’s last line in case he needs a good quote for one of his morally ambiguous characters.

For a lone assassin, though, Arcelia is surprisingly upfront about her work. Most would stick to secrecy, in case an actual guild became threatened and decided to wipe out its competitor. Then again, nobleborn assassins are a rarity, and her status must protect her from most common hitjobs.

“And Wonderboy?” Varric asks.

“He was content staying in the shadows.” Arcelia smiles wistfully, a subtle curve of her lips as the candlelight highlights the specks of gold in her otherwise green eyes. “Being the youngest in a noble family means being constantly overlooked and dismissed. It might have fostered resentment were it anyone else, but Arthur was only grateful for it. He never enjoyed being the center of attention; the less people noticed him, the happier he was.” 

“Huh.” Varric definitely didn’t see that coming; it just doesn’t mesh with the larger-than-life figure he has become acquainted with over the past few weeks. “That doesn’t really sound like…”

“Like the man you know?” Arcelia nods, lifting her cup and taking another long sip from her drink. “Up until a month ago Arthur had no idea what he wanted to do with his life. It’s why our father sent him off to the Conclave. Father thought that perhaps attending the gathering might inspire him, offer him some clarity.”

“I bet this quite isn’t what your father had in mind when he sent his son away.”

“Not exactly, no,” Arcelia agrees with a touch of humor that almost turns a little sad as she lowers her gaze to the table, staring at the scratches in the wood as she breathes a sigh. “It’s only… I have to ask, Varric. What happened during Arthur’s time in Haven?”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Varric reclines back into his chair. “For as long as I’ve known him, Wonderboy’s always been like this. Even back when everyone still suspected him of being behind the attack on the Conclave, he was completely unshaken.”

He looks down at his cup as he pauses, recalling those tense few hours after Arthur woke up and the fighting was at its worst, a race to reach the first rift and close it before their only hope for salvation died.

“Honestly, at the time, that confidence of his was as reassuring as it was terrifying, since I was half-convinced I was following a complete lunatic to my death,” Varric continues as he watches his drink slosh inside his cup with the circular movements of his hand. “Though it all makes sense now, considering.”

“Considering?” Arcelia questions nonchalantly.

Were he less experienced, he might have even missed the sharp gleam flashing in her eyes, like the flick of a dagger between quick fingers. It makes the hair at the back of his neck stand up, but it helps to remember this is only out of concern for her little brother.

Varric sets his unease aside and gives her a long look, realizing that Arthur must not have told his siblings about his _gift_ yet. He considers clueing her in, but only briefly before he discards the idea.

This isn’t his secret to tell.

“Considering he’s the Herald of Andraste,” Varric finishes with a reasonable lie. “I guess he was chosen for this after all.”

He can’t tell whether it convinced Arcelia or not since she just looks away and toward Regulus, who is now engaging in a drinking game with Threnn and Harrit.

When she meets Varric’s gaze again, she asks, “Will you look out for him for me, when you’re out in the field?”

Varric frowns slightly, glancing back at Regulus. “I thought Rebel over there would be joining the party?” 

“He is,” Arcelia confirms, lips quirking at the nickname for her older brother. “Even so, he won’t always be out there together with Arthur and neither will you, but when you are—”

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t faint from sleep deprivation,” Varric promises. “Or malnutrition. Or stress. Or a nasty blow to the head.”

Arcelia smiles, seeming a little lighter now with that weight off her chest. “Thank you, Varric.”

“So, all that touching family business aside,” Varric says as he puts his drink down and leans over the table, “got any stories of your own to share?”

Arcelia looks entirely unsurprised by the request. “Looking for fodder for one of your books, Master Tethras?”

“Fodder? Not a chance!” Varric grins. “It’s not every day I get to interview a noblewoman who assassinates people as a hobby on the side—that’s definitely plot-worthy material.”

“Oh?” Arcelia watches him with a teasing look in her eyes. “Main villain worthy, I hope?”

“Belladonna, you and I are going to be great friends.”

Arcelia blinks at him, surprised.

“Belladonna… _beautiful lady_?” she translates from Antivan, arching her brows. “Are you coming onto me, Varric?”

Varric snorts. “I was thinking more the _poisonous berries_ variety of Belladonna, but whatever works for you.”

“A double entendre,” Arcelia comments, amused by the nickname. “Clever.”

“I live to please.”

* * *

Haven burns around him.

Arthur stands outside the village gates as he stares into the howling fires engulfing its aged wood but he can’t feel the heat.

He hears ghosts in the flames crying out to him for help— _Herald, Herald, Herald_ —but he can’t feel his legs.

The only thing he feels is the cold.

Suddenly Cassandra stands beside him, the flesh on the left side of her face charred black, her eye missing.

“This was a victory,” she says to him, blood dripping out her mouth with every word.

Arthur feels the large void of where her eye should be staring at him and a scream swells up in his throat, but he can’t move his lips to let it out; they’re frozen shut.

Cassandra points down toward the snow and Arthur looks.

There’s a white rabbit, lying dead at his feet.

“What is it meant to do?” Arthur asks, speaking words uttered lifetimes ago as his mouth moves on its own, a question he once asked Corypheus about the Anchor.

But Corypheus isn’t here, not yet.

Cassandra smiles at him.

“It is meant to die,” she says, and hands him a blood-stained knife.

Arthur wakes up.

He’s breathing hard and feels sticky with sweat underneath his clothes, his right elbow and the right side of his back aching like he just rammed into a solid brick wall.

Or a hardwood floor, considering that’s where he is currently.

He stares up at the ceiling, feeling strangely numb while flashes of his dream still linger behind his eyes and he has the strong urge to go out there and find Cassandra, even though he knows she’s alright and it’s all in his head.

But how can he be sure? How can he be certain that anything that has happened to him, the different lifetimes that he remembers, aren’t just some vivid hallucinations that he has fooled himself into believing? How can he know, without a doubt, that he isn’t just trapped in an endless nightmare?

Sometimes Arthur feels like he’s walking on the edge of sanity, but tonight at least, he manages to tread the line without losing his balance as he takes a breath and pushes his thoughts aside.

It doesn’t matter; to doubt himself is akin to dying.

Arthur looks around the room, realizing it’s nearly pitch black inside the cabin and there’s very little noise coming from outside; he must have woken up in the middle of the night.

His eyes feel red, like all the veins inside them have burst and even though it must have been several hours Arthur still feels exhausted. So much so that he can’t muster up the energy to lift himself off the floor, until he actually starts shivering from the cold.

“Enough sulking,” he says sternly to himself, leveraging his hands against the floor and managing to sit up with a grunt, but the movement is a little too quick and he ends up feeling rather light-headed, lips chapped and mouth dry.

His stomach tightens harshly, rumbling with a pitched sound.

Maker, he’s starving.

Arthur sits himself down on the edge of the bed, the sheets he slept on top of rumpled by his thrashing about. He rubs his hands over his face and runs his fingers through his hair, trying to shake off the lingering haze clouding his mind.

At least he doesn’t have to go through the tedious motions of dressing up in his clothes, seeing as how he fell asleep in them.

He gets up on his feet and throws on a thick cloak to protect from the cold before he leaves the cabin, opening the door and peering outside.

The snow blanketing the rooftops appears bright, thinner on the ground along the paths running between the buildings and tents where countless feet walk the grounds every day. At nights like these the glow radiating from the Breach tinges the moonlight green, reflecting eerily in the windows.

Arthur walks down the road from his cabin toward the tavern, wondering if his brother and sister will still be up waiting for him when he glimpses the village gates down the stairs on his right.

He swears he sees them burning and he halts in his tracks to look, but of course there are no flames aside from torches and small bonfires lit by villagers, soldiers and refugees.

“Excuse me?”

Arthur startles harshly at the sudden voice and recoils a step back, finding a woman suddenly standing right in front of him.

“Oh, I’m very sorry!” the woman—an unfamiliar elf with Dalish markings on her face—apologizes when she sees his wide-eyed look. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, I was just looking for a friend and thought you might be able to help me.”

His heart is still beating a mile a minute, but the small elven woman in front of him looks so utterly harmless that he finds himself relaxing again after exhaling a soft breath.

“It’s alright,” he assures her, even though the urge to crawl back into his bed is starting to grow again. “Who’s your friend?”

“He’s a dwarf,” she answers, big green eyes appearing earnest. “You might have heard of him, his name is Varric Tethras.”

“I have, actually.” Arthur doesn’t know why he’s surprised by that, seeing as how Varric practically knows everyone worth knowing. “Have you tried the tavern?”

“No, I’ll go do that right now!” the woman says brightly, then pauses again. “Ah, where exactly can I find the tavern?”

“I can walk with you,” Arthur offers. “It’s straight ahead.”

“That would be great.”

She looks relieved at not having to navigate the streets alone, and Arthur glances at the unmistakable staff on her back with curiosity, though she does not seem to notice as they begin to walk. Something about her seems almost familiar, but he can’t quite place it and straining to remember it is just going to give him a headache with how tired he is.

“Thank you for your help, messere,” the woman says to him as they walk. “My friends and I have only just arrived to Haven, so we’re still finding our way.”

Messere? The woman must be from the Free Marches, Arthur thinks, possibly even Kirkwall as that would explain how she became friends with Varric.

“That’s understandable,” Arthur muses. “Haven isn’t quite as organized as it should be.”

“Oh, no, it’s lovely!” the woman says hurriedly, as if afraid of offending him by saying anything else. “Except for… you know. The hole in the sky? Also, my name is Merrill. I, um, probably should’ve lead with that.”

Arthur feels like he should know that name and it’s tugging on something deep within his memory, but he’s coming up blank.

“I’m the—” Arthur stops himself. “Arthur. I’m Arthur.”

‘The Herald of Andraste’ stays in his mouth, going unspoken.

He can still hear the ghosts screaming inside the flames of his nightmare.

Merrill doesn’t seem to think anything of his strange stumble through his sentence. “It’s nice to meet you, Arthur. Do you know Varric personally?”

As the tavern building comes into view ahead of them, its warm golden light spilling through the windows and the sound of chatter and laughter growing louder, Arthur loses his appetite.

The longer he stares at it, the more the lights begin to look like flames.

“Yes, I’ve known him for about a month or so,” Arthur answers vaguely as he watches people move around through the windows, hears someone starting to sing a tune and others joining in.

The longer he listens, the more the singing begins to sound like screaming.

_Herald, Herald, Herald._

“We’re here,” Arthur says, coming to a stop a few feet away.

Merrill turns to stare at him, puzzled. “Aren’t you going inside?”

“No, I…” Arthur swallows thickly, averting his gaze. “I think I’m going to call it a night.”

He couldn’t handle a room full of people looking at him right now.

“Well, alright,” Merrill accepts easily, though she’s regarding him differently now, watching him more closely as her brows furrow. “Thanks again for your help, Arthur.”

“Of course,” Arthur replies, a little curt as he itches to leave, to find somewhere quiet where he can be alone for a while before he suffocates. “Have a good night, Merrill.”

Cassandra’s voice echoes in his ears as he walks away from her, going straight past the tavern toward the Chantry.

_“It is meant to die.”_

Arthur shakes his head as if trying to shake off the nightmare’s words, quickly heading up the steps while he keeps his head down in case someone recognizes him, going around the Chantry and following the wall to the left side.

He brushes right past someone on his way there, though he’s too caught up in his own thoughts to apologize.

There’s a small area out of view of the main streets and sheltered by the trees where Arthur sometimes finds things stored by Leliana’s scouts, but right now it’s empty and facing away from the Breach which is exactly what Arthur needs.

Leaning his back against the wall Arthur sinks down onto the snow and sits with his knees drawn up, elbows resting on the bones as he threads his hands through his hair and concentrates on just breathing.

He has had worse nightmares, far worse than this. There’s no reason why he should be so shaken by this one, there’s no reason for him to keep thinking of the rabbit lying dead at his feet, yet he can’t get the image out of his mind.

It’s like he’s trapped in a corner and the walls keep coming closer.

Snow crunches under the soles of someone’s boots, and Arthur feels them standing over him.

“Had a—”

It’s like his body dictates his reaction, the motion of reaching for the dagger on his belt so ingrained in him that he doesn’t stop to think.

He launches himself out of his crouch and collides into a heavy weight that chokes out a quiet ‘ _oomph’_ , sending both of them sprawling across the snow.

Arthur presses the edge of his dagger to a neck.

“Had a- rough night?” the stranger finishes, the strong baritone of his voice slightly strained and entirely breathless.

It takes Arthur a moment to get back to himself before he realizes his overreaction, mouth already opening with an apology when he gets a good look at the man lying below him.

Whiskey brown eyes warmed by sunlight and a brush of midnight in his hair, a face fit to be immortalized into coin and a handsome smile gracing his lips like he knows it; Garrett Hawke.

Arthur is _mortified_.

“I’m so sorry,” he says as he hurriedly puts his dagger away and rolls over onto the snow, facing away from Hawke while the blood rushes to his face with the pounding of his heartbeat.

“Don’t be,” he hears Hawke say from behind him. “I probably had that coming.”  

The last time he saw Hawke was the first time, before Arthur became trapped in this cycle of life and death. Their interactions were very brief and Hawke never lingered in Skyhold for more than a few days before moving on—Arthur’s memories of that time are too muddled to rely on.

All he can remember with any certainty was that Hawke impressed him. Whenever he did come by Skyhold or they met each other out in the field, Arthur’s eyes always kept being drawn to Hawke. They still are, as Arthur can’t help but look over his shoulder to glance at Hawke.

Maybe because there is something alike in them, or maybe because Hawke is simply impossible to ignore.

“You’d think I’d have gotten used to strangers pulling knives on me by now,” Hawke says as he rights himself, pushing up to his feet and ruffling a hand through his hair to shake the snow off.

He turns to Arthur, who’s still sitting on the ground, and extends his hand.

“A dagger,” Arthur says without thinking.

Hawke blinks and then stares at him quizzically. “I’m sorry?”

“I pulled a dagger on you.” Arthur clasps his fingers around Hawke’s forearm, feeling the heat radiating off his flushed cheeks clash with the cold air as Hawke pulls him up with ease. “Not a knife.”

Hawke tilts his head slightly as he studies Arthur’s reddened face, a mischievous look in his eyes.

“Looks rather small for a dagger, don’t you think?” he says.

Arthur frowns, then slips the dagger out his belt again and flips it around in his hand in a single fluid motion, Hawke’s eyes tracking the movement attentively.

“It’s big enough to do the job.”

Hawke meets Arthur’s gaze and arches his brows, then starts laughing. "Oh, I’m sure it is!”

It takes Arthur a second to realize what Hawke is laughing about, and when he does he’s so flustered that he breaks eye-contact, sliding the dagger back into his belt.

“Do you always share indecent euphemisms with people you’ve just met?”

Hawke keeps a cavalier tone, as if flirting with strangers in dark corners is just an everyday occurrence to him. “What do you think?”

“Let me guess,” Arthur muses. “Only the pretty ones?”

Hawke’s lips spread into a grin.

“You’re rather full of yourself, aren’t you?” he teases and for some ridiculous reason, it actually works.

Arthur laughs, and it’s as if a weight drops from his shoulders.

“That’s much better,” Hawke comments. “Definitely preferable to having a knife pulled on me.”

“A _dagger_ ,” Arthur protests even as he utterly fails to suppress his smile.

He watches Hawke as he shifts to lean sideways against the wall with his arm, and he really looks nothing like a mage without a staff on his back.

For one, he looks to be two inches taller than Arthur who measures at a respectable 6 feet, yet Arthur’s build is leaner, trained for agility and precision defined in a fit upper body narrowing into a wiry waist above thick thighs, his lower body packed with muscle where he’s more slim in his arms and chest.

Hawke, on the other hand, cuts an all-around sharp figure with broad shoulders and defined arms, a strong frame supported by firm legs, his physique far more common in a warrior than it is in a mage.

Not that Arthur is complaining.

“So, is there any reason in particular you’re sulking out here in the arse-end of the Frostback Mountains?” Hawke asks. “Aside from the giant hole in the sky, I mean.”

“I just—” Arthur pauses, adjusting his cloak to wrap it around himself more firmly when a sudden breeze sends a shiver up his spine. “I needed some time alone.”

Hawke straightens up, staring at him with what seems like curiosity though it quickly fades into another wry remark. “Looks like that’s not going to happen.”

“No, I suppose not,” Arthur agrees quietly, staring back at Hawke with equal amounts of interest and wondering what might change now that he’s actually here.

He never showed up in Arthur’s past cycles, either because Arthur never made it far enough or because he already knew more than enough to try and make it without Hawke’s help. Perhaps one of the many mistakes Arthur no doubt made to keep him trapped in this loop.

“Why come after me?” Arthur asks finally.

“You mean aside from the fact that you nearly ran me over in your hurry to get here?” Hawke remarks and Arthur almost winces when he realizes the person he nearly bumped into earlier must have been him.

“Sorry about that.”

Hawke lets a smile slip.

“If you’re really sorry, I wouldn’t say no to you buying me a drink.”

Arthur is momentarily speechless, thrown off by how bold Hawke is. It’s something he’s been missing, Arthur realizes, that demeanor that some would call irreverent for treating him as if he were no different from everyone else.

“I would love to,” Arthur finds himself saying before he can even think about it, and starts to walk back toward the front of the Chantry with Hawke following him by his side. “My name is Arthur, by the way.”

Hawke opens his mouth, a short pause as something passes in his eyes before he finally says, “Garrett.”

Arthur understands all too well.

“Garrett,” he repeats, feeling a little strange saying it and maybe Hawke feels the same but he doesn’t shy away from it, his gaze seeming to soften a little as he looks at Arthur. “Thank you for not letting me be alone.”

It was exactly the distraction Arthur needed to swallow down the fear balled up in the back of his throat.

“No need to thank me,” Hawke replies as they step out from among the trees, finding the Chantry doors still closed and the bonfire by the tents slowly dying out into embers without anyone tending to it. “I got a free drink out of this, after all.”

Arthur chuckles, feeling a little bit lighter as he breathes in the cool midnight air and thinks he catches Hawke staring at him from the corner of his eyes, but when he glances at him Hawke is looking the other way.

“I haven’t seen you around here before,” Arthur notes as he leads them down the stairs toward the tavern, the thought of a crowd a lot less intimidating with Hawke by his side.

“Makes sense, seeing as how I only got here an hour ago,” Hawke says dryly, eyes drifting over Haven with a certain wariness to them.

“Having second thoughts?”

Hawke looks at him, expression neutral. “That depends.”

“On?”

“How good your ale is.”

He is good at deflecting—no wonder, considering his best friend is Varric.

“I can’t make any promises there,” Arthur says honestly, never having visited the tavern much in Haven.

“That’s alright.” Hawke smiles slightly, something more honest about him now. “I’m sure the company’s worth it.”

Arthur averts his gaze, off-balance and unable to think of a reply.

“You don’t look like a pilgrim,” he says at length, changing the subject. “Why come to Haven?”

“A friend invited me,” Hawke answers. “Thought I might as well come see what all the fuss was about.”

They walk around a corner and come up to the tavern, which looks slightly emptier now than it did when Arthur first walked past it.

“Any thoughts on the Inquisition so far?”

Arthur catches Hawke looking him over.

“Only good ones,” Hawke promises as his eyes unhurriedly drift back up to Arthur’s face and Arthur feels like a tongue-tied teenager again.

Was Hawke always this flirtatious? Then again, the last time they met was under different and far more dire circumstances and Arthur remembered his humor being either bitter or fleeting, caught under the flaring of his temper whenever they had to deal with demons and blood magic.

Now he seems much more laidback, perhaps even a little more open.

“This is the tavern,” Arthur points out stupidly, not knowing how to reply, and Hawke’s lips wobble like he’s trying to hold back a smile.

“I can see that.”

“We should… go inside?”

Hawke rubs a hand over his mouth as he tries to cover the grin that breaks out on his face and Arthur has _no idea_ how he’s doing it but he thinks Hawke looks a little charmed by him rather than cringing at his awkwardness.

“Lead the way,” Hawke says, and so Arthur does.

* * *

Garrett sits at a table in a tavern slowly clearing out of customers as the night draws on. His gaze lingers on the young man at the front of the tavern, the way he leans forward on the counter to chat with the bartender giving Garrett a rather great view of his—

“Hawke,” he hears Varric say from somewhere beside him in a strained sort of voice. “Please tell me you’re not actually checking out the Herald’s ass right now.”

Garrett chokes on his ale.

“Oh, he absolutely was,” Merrill tells Varric as she takes the seat across from him, the traitor.

His coughing fit gains him the attention of several patrons in the tavern surrounding the table, as well as that of the strapping young man who introduced himself as Arthur but is apparently _the Herald of bloody Andraste_.

Garrett is fairly sure this amounts to some form of sacrilege on his part.

“I- was not,” he manages to sputter out in between his coughing, trying to catch his breath as Varric gives Garrett a look that means he will most definitely be writing this moment into his next book. “Hello to you too, Varric.”

Varric grins at him and for the first time since he arrived in Haven the tension Garrett was holding in his chest finally eases up. If he were to close his eyes and listen to the sounds of the tavern he could almost believe they’re back in the Hanged Man.

"Hawke." 

“Fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into this time,” Garrett remarks, his sarcasm undermined by the sincere smile that unfurls on his face.

“I’m more worried about our friends back in Kirkwall,” Varric admits.  

“Aveline’s holding down the fort,” Merrill says. “Most of the templars—the red ones—have left the city by now.”

“Left?” Varric gives her a sharp look from across the table. “To where?”

“No one knows,” Merrill replies with a shrug. “It’s not like they announced it, they just kind of… disappeared.”

Garrett meets Varric’s gaze and he can tell they’re thinking the same thing; there’s not a chance of this being a coincidence when Corypheus is out there.

But before either of them can voice the thought, they’re interrupted by the Herald himself.

“Varric,” Arthur greets in a friendly way as he sidles up to their table. “Hello again, Merrill.”

“Wonderboy,” Varric greets him back, and Garrett casts him a curious look at the nickname that Varric ignores. “I see you already met the friends I told you about—well, two of them.”

Varric motions to the empty seat across from Garrett, next to Merrill and Arthur slides onto the chair without preamble.

Thankfully, Garrett has regained his composure by this point and feels comfortable enough to meet the Herald’s gaze while trying to block out the fact that he’d just been shamelessly flirting with Andraste’s second coming, or whatever he’s supposed to be.

“So, you’re actually the Herald of Andraste?” Garrett says with a smoothness that honestly shouldn’t be permitted from a man who was choking on his drink two minutes ago, unclenching his fingers from around his cup. “Could’ve mentioned that earlier.”

“I didn’t see you introducing yourself as the Champion of Kirkwall either, _Garrett_ ,” Arthur points out and if Garrett wasn’t too busy being enamored by the way his name rolls off Arthur’s tongue, he might have admitted that Arthur has a point.

“Huh,” Varric muses from beside Garrett. “I think this is the first time I’ve heard someone call you that, aside from your mother.”

“Carver does,” Garrett answers as he barely manages to tear his eyes off Arthur to look at Varric. “But only when he’s happy. In other words, practically never.” 

“Where’s Junior at, anyway?”

“He and Fenris are sleeping off the journey,” Merrill informs Varric. “Weren’t much in the mood for talk when we arrived.”

Varric snorts.

“Are they ever?” He takes a sip from his drink. “Though I gotta say, Hawke, I wasn’t expecting you to bring along a whole party.”

“Me neither,” Garrett says, giving a halfhearted smile. “Carver didn’t give me much of a choice.”

“Overprotective siblings?” Arthur inquires.

Garrett sighs.

“You have no idea.”

“Oh, I have _some_ idea,” Arthur assures him before he turns to Varric. “Did mine stay out of trouble?”

“No one got into a barfight,” Varric answers drolly.

“Well, that’s just about the best you can hope for when you put Regulus in the same room as alcohol.”

“You have a brother?” Garrett asks with interest, though he doesn’t know why it surprises him so much.

“An older brother and sister.”

Garrett’s mouth curls playfully. “Should I be worried?”

He feels Arthur’s ankle touch against his under the table, blue eyes bright in the candlelight and as Garrett watches Arthur he realizes there’s amber in them too, reminding him of the way the sky looks just as dawn turns into day.

“Not if you play nice,” Arthur says plainly, nothing suggestive in his tone or his expression but nothing uninviting either.

So Garrett takes another chance, taps his ankle back deliberately and says, “I always play nice, Arthur.”

Arthur stares at him, his gaze seeming fixated on Garrett’s face as his lips—flushed a pretty red—slowly part to say something.

“Oh!” Merrill says suddenly, cutting Arthur off. “I get it now, they’re _flirting_.”

Varric sighs from beside Garrett who is entirely too distracted by the wide-eyed look on Arthur’s face.

“Me, flirt with a total stranger?” Garrett intervenes with feigned indignation, sparing Arthur from having to respond. “When have I ever—”

“Isabela,” Varric says. “Fenris, Anders, Merrill. Donnic and Cullen. _Me_.”

“That wasn’t actual flirting,” Garrett protests. “That’s just how I say hello.”

“Shouldn’t we, um, talk about why we’re here?” Merrill asks, derailing the conversation into more serious territory. “Or what we’re supposed to be doing now?”

“You've only just arrived,” Arthur points out. “It can wait until tomorrow morning, after I’ve introduced you to everyone and gotten you caught up on the Inquisition’s plans.”

“But there is a plan, isn’t there?” Varric surmises.

Arthur reclines back into his chair, glancing at Garrett and then Merrill and for a moment Garrett sees it again, the same look he saw when Arthur held him down against the snow and pressed a dagger to his neck and made his heart skip a beat.

There’s a gleam in Arthur’s eye when he looks back at Garrett.

“Have you ever been to Redcliffe?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ayyy, the main pairing has finally arrived lmao 
> 
> i dunno how you guys played hawke in da2, but mine was always an incorrigible flirt with everyone he met tbh
> 
> the plot finally gets rolling next chapter, when we're finally off to redcliffe! thanks for reading, feel free to share your thoughts on the chapter in the comments as always!! <3


	6. fragile sky, part i

The cold wind dwelling the Frostback Mountains blows sharply across the tips of Solas’ ears as his traveling party follows the road back toward the Hinterlands. They’ve descended from the steepest hills and are now within the frozen forest stretching out over the snow-covered meadows that lead toward the warmer parts of Ferelden, though not by much.

Arthur rides in the front atop his Fereldan steed as he typically does, but this time there are significant additions to their party, one of which is the person riding right beside Arthur.

The arrival of Garrett Hawke was a surprise to most of the Inquisition, causing quite a stir once locals began to whisper of catching glimpses of him around the village and in the tavern. Apparently Hawke tried to keep his presence under wraps for the first few days, but after he was spotted leaving the War Room rumor spread faster than a wildfire and it was impossible to try and hide in the shadows any longer.

Fortunately for Hawke, his presence seems to have a similar effect on the people of Haven as Arthur’s does; too intimidating to approach. He has been left quite alone even as eyes always follow him wherever he goes, but Solas suspects him to be used to the attention considering his time in Kirkwall.

It will be interesting to see what comes of it, as Solas remembers Cassandra’s admission that she and Leliana had initially searched for Hawke in order to make him the leader of the Inquisition.

Now, they have both the Herald of Andraste—who has already been leading them competently—and the Champion of Kirkwall.

“Huh.”

Solas glances toward Varric, riding beside him. He looks less awkward now than he did a week ago, slowly having gotten used to his horse. There was no need in Kirkwall for horses since everything was well within walking distance, after all.

“Looks like they’re getting along great,” Varric says, his focus on Arthur and Hawke riding together at the front, Cassandra, Carver and Regulus behind them, followed by Solas and Varric, and finally Fenris and Merrill bringing up the rear.

“You seem concerned,” Solas notes at the frown on Varric’s face. “Is it not a good thing?”

“I’m not so sure.” Varric’s white horse seems to pick up on his distracted mood because it starts swaying its head a bit restlessly, until Varric snaps back to attention to handle the reins. “Yeah, alright—calm down there you big dummy.”

Solas considers the two leaders of their party; Arthur riding a russet brown horse, the faded blue of his leather and iron of his armor plates giving him a rather colorful appearance while Hawke rides beside him, dressed in various shades of grey and darker colors atop his black horse and appearing completely monotone.

Yet contrasting their appearance, Arthur is reserved but attentive while Hawke does most of the talking. Arthur keeps people at a distance, while Hawke naturally attracts them towards him.

“They certainly make quite the pair,” Solas notes, wondering how this will impact the Inquisition.  

Varric shakes his head. “This just looks like it’s gotten  _tragedy_ written all over it. Call me a pessimist, but a hero’s journey doesn’t typically end with a happily ever after. Two heroes instead of one? One of them usually betrays the other, or one of them dies, or they both die. And since neither of them are the betraying type…”

“Do you really have nothing better to do than imagining impending disaster in Hawke’s life?” Fenris remarks from behind them at that very moment, he and Merrill apparently having followed the conversation.

“Because it’s been such a walk in the park up until now.”

Fenris pauses. “That’s… a fair point.”

“Is Hawke aware of your concerns?” Solas deigns to ask.

Varric laughs. “Nope, and I’d like to keep it that way. Last thing he needs is to think I’m spying on him.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Not really,” Varric answers frankly. “I’m worried, but I’m not about to start hovering over his shoulder. That’s more Aveline’s thing. Or Fenris now, since she isn’t here.”

“I don’t  _hover_ ,” Fenris retorts irritably.

“You kind of do,” Merrill replies.

Varric looks over his shoulder at Fenris. “I’m surprised you came along, considering we’re trying to make peace with the mages.”

Fenris simply glares at him.

“The Herald mentioned we’d be killing a Tevinter Magister,” Merrill supplies helpfully.

“Yeah, that would do it.”

Solas finds his curiosity piqued. “You are not fond of mages, Fenris?”

He can almost feel Fenris’ gaze boring into his back.

“Not the demon-summoning kind, no.”

The edge to Fenris’ tone suggests an underlying debate tinged with personal issues that Solas suspects would be unwise to engage, and so he shifts focus.

“Well,” Solas says politely, “at least we can agree on the Tevinter Magisters.”

Fenris sounds more at ease in his reply. “That we can.”

Both Varric and Merrill seem relieved as the tension dissipates, Merrill breathing out a thankful sigh.

“I’m almost shocked at how well that went,” she mutters.

Clearly Fenris isn’t known for having a cool head in these types of discussions.

Still, Hawke gained both Fenris’ respect and his loyalty and he  _is_  a mage. Solas considers the possibility of doing the same—whatever he may think of magic, Fenris has potential, though he seems entirely disconnected from anything to do with elven identity unlike Merrill.

“Finding common ground with a mage?” Varric says to Fenris with exaggerated surprise. “I’m proud of you, elf.”

“Don’t get used to it, dwarf.”

“He’s self-aware! It’s a miracle!”

“ _Ugh_.”

* * *

When Arthur was thirteen, Regulus—seven years his elder and the fifth Trevelyan in their family line to win the melee of the Grand Tourney—was the one to teach him how to hold a sword.

“It’s a bit big for you,” Regulus said as he watched Arthur drag the sword across the stone tiles in the courtyard of their family’s estate. “Maybe you should start with a dagger?”

“No!” Arthur insisted, sucking in a deep breath and lifting the longsword up with effort. “I can do it!”

And even though Arthur was bad at it and the weight was too heavy and he had blisters on his hands by the end of the day, he still made Regulus teach him nearly every afternoon.

No one ever questioned Arthur’s eagerness because it was expected of him to learn how to handle himself with a weapon. This was especially true in an ancient house like Trevelyan who had quite a few illustrious warriors in its line, mostly templars and even a few Seekers. But Arthur never cared about any of that.

The truth of it was that Arthur always admired his older brother and sister, and more than anything in the world he wanted to grow up to be just like them.

And maybe that still hasn’t changed because the way Regulus moves in battle, Arthur thinks, is a thing of beauty to witness.

The sunlight glints off the silver of his greatsword as he swings it into a high arc and crashes it down on a shade demon like a strike of lightning from the sky above, but the blade never pauses once it hits its target. It’s constantly moving with its wielder, a shimmer in the air there and gone again, an extension of Regulus’ arm.

And Regulus steps through the battlefield with intent, steadfast as he moves from one demon to the next. He isn’t quick-footed like some of the others due to his heavy armor, as he chooses to take a blow on his blade rather than dodge it, but no matter what the demons throw at him he just keeps walking in that same unhurried pace.

One step at a time, like something inevitable.

If Arthur were on the other end of Regulus’ blade, he would be terrified. Unfortunately the demons seem incapable of such, though it doesn’t take very long for Arthur’s entire party to cut them down.

And once Arthur reaches toward the Fade rift in front of Redcliffe’s gates with his mark and seals it, when his eyes find Regulus again among the disintegrating corpses of the monsters, Regulus is smiling.

He always gets a little drunk off his adrenaline after battle.

“Neat trick,” Regulus comments, though his smile dims a bit when he glances down at Arthur’s Anchor.

“Had fun?”

“Oh yes.” Regulus returns his greatsword to his back, grin back in full force. “I don’t have to show any restraint  _and_ I’m doing the world a favor by ridding it of demons. What’s not to love?”

Arthur shakes his head. “You weren’t affected by them at all?”

“I think I was killing them too quickly for them to scare me.” Regulus’ gaze wanders off as he finds Cassandra standing near the gates, signaling the guards to lower them now that the rift and the demons are gone. “Seeker! You were quite impressive with that shield—”

He leaves Arthur behind and walks up to her. Arthur is very much used to Regulus’ insatiable need for constant social interaction so he leaves it be, though he catches Hawke’s eyes from a few feet away.

Arthur’s look is exasperated as he glances toward Regulus trying to chat up Cassandra, who is completely oblivious to it. Hawke follows Arthur’s glance and his lips twitch in amusement, seeming to understand without needing any words.

“At least yours seems happy,” Hawke tells him, tilting his head sideways to gesture at Carver who scowls deeply while wiping his blade clean. “I think I prefer joyful bloodlust over constant brooding.”

It’s not even that funny of a remark yet it coaxes a laugh out of Arthur anyway, a brief one before he catches himself. He feels at once very self-aware and embarrassed over his exaggerated response as he quickly averts his gaze, though Hawke seems not to mind as he’s smiling at Arthur now.

“Arthur,” Cassandra calls then, over the sound of moving chains and the metal of the gate sliding upwards to allow them passage.

He turns away from Hawke, relieved for the excuse and wondering if he imagines the feeling of a gaze on his back as he joins Cassandra and Regulus. The two of them flank him on either side as they enter the village, though Arthur almost wishes they hadn’t: two heavily-armored, muscular bodyguards isn’t exactly inconspicuous.

Though with Hawke present, he supposes discretion wasn’t his priority when deciding on who to take along to Redcliffe.

Regardless, distractions like Hawke are something he can no longer afford, especially not at such a crucial point of his plan. Admitting even this much to himself is a slippery slope Arthur is reluctant to go down, afraid of where it might lead him.

“What now?” he hears Carver ask from behind him as they walk the road toward the village, their first glimpse of it the overgrowth covering ruins sprawling down the hill, Chantry clerics lingering remarkably far away from the village itself where the Chantry building must be.

All driven out by Alexius, no doubt.

Arthur comes to a halt in front of the village proper and briefly watches a few villagers pray with a Chantry sister in front of a half-toppled statue, too ruined to make out who it was meant to resemble. The villagers around him cast their party curious glances and whisper amongst each other as they pass; no doubt word of their arrival will reach Alexius soon.

While Arthur has detailed most of the plan to the others, he realizes that in all his scheming and contemplating he forgot to specify  _this_ part of it, considering it’s just a detail.

“Now, we split up.” Arthur turns around to face the rest of his party, but of course he meets Hawke’s eyes first and something inside him strains, pulling taut like a bowstring as he quickly looks away toward the others. “Cassandra, Hawke and Carver will accompany me to meet with the Magister.”

“Me?” Carver raises his brows. “You want a- you want  _me_  around?”

Best not to mention the word  _templar_ with so many eyes and ears on them—as brusque as Carver is, at least he isn’t reckless with it.

“They won’t know what you can do,” Arthur says with a pointed look at Carver’s armor, neutral grey plates without any symbols etched into them. “So yes, I’d like you around should the situation turn… hostile.”  

“What about the rest of us?” Merrill asks.

“Look around for a bit,” Arthur suggests. “Try and find out more about this Magister if you can, then meet us back at the tavern in half an hour.”

Cassandra gives him a sideways look. “You think the meeting will be over that quickly?”

“Quicker.” Arthur turns back toward the road. “Let’s get a move on.”

Regulus pats him on the shoulder, a gesture that almost makes Arthur jump. It serves as a very stark reminder that he is entirely unaccustomed to such casual physical affection, where once it was commonplace to him.

He’s a little bit disturbed by the thought; has he become so touch-starved that a pat on the shoulder through his leather armor is enough to rattle him?

With a lingering sense of unease, Arthur watches Regulus head toward the docks together with Varric and Fenris, while Merrill and Solas go another direction toward the Chantry.

It splits up their group up into three, leaving Arthur behind with Cassandra, Hawke and Carver as he intended. Arthur takes a quiet breath through his nostrils and clears his mind, an exercise in repression he has become quite skilled at, before he takes the lead toward the Gull and Lantern.

Though, naturally, it doesn’t take long for Hawke to catch up and walk next to him.

“Do you really think the Magister will take the bait?” Hawke asks him, and Arthur finds his shoulders tensing before he can help it.

“If I know anything about Tevinter Magisters, it’s that they’re arrogant,” Arthur answers evenly, trying not to look at Hawke and keep his eyes focused forward. “We have nothing to worry about.”  

All they have to do is wait until tomorrow, and Alexius will be as good as dead.

“You know, I’m still having trouble trying to figure out how you’re so certain the timing of this will work.” Hawke sounds nonchalant as he speaks. “Your people must be  _really_ good at their jobs.”

Cassandra, bless her heart, comes to Arthur’s aid. “Leliana is to thank for that.”

“Remind me to compliment her when she stops being terrifying,” Hawke replies dryly. “Also—not to sound ungrateful—but is there any reason in particular you wanted me along for this?”

Arthur glances at him from the corner of his eyes, and Hawke doesn’t look suspicious. Just expectant, as if he already knows the answer.

“They’ll probably recognize me,” Hawke prods when Arthur remains silent. “Seems a little like poking the hornet’s nest. But that’s the intent, isn’t it?”

“I don’t follow,” Carver says bluntly.

“To the rebel mages, Hawke is their hero,” Cassandra answers as Hawke keeps staring at Arthur and Arthur seems to have lost all capability of lying because the words refuse to leave his mouth with Hawke’s bright brown eyes boring into him. “Once we deal with the Magister, seeing Hawke on the Inquisition’s side is all but guaranteed to win them over. But the Magister won’t like it.”

“It’ll put him on the defense,” Hawke finally says, tearing his gaze away from Arthur who finally feels like he can breathe again. “Risky, but clever.”

“Most of my plans are,” Arthur admits freely. “I can’t afford to play it safe with the whole world at stake.” 

Hawke does raise an interesting question about the timing of it. After all, when Arthur arrived at Redcliffe in his first life, no one was expecting him. Alexius used time magic to beat him to the rebel mages, but this all happened only after Arthur’s trip to Val Royeaux.

Arthur was curious whether planning on visiting the rebel mages before going to Val Royeaux would mean Alexius would adjust his timing as well, which evidently he did.

It makes him wonder about the workings of time magic. Apparently time-travel  _within_ a time loop is still possible, without having the fabric of space and time tearing itself apart.

Even so, Arthur has made it a point to avoid being propelled two years into the future in his past cycles. He chose the templars thrice, ill at ease about what even  _more_ time magic might do. It was a risk to even come here.

He hopes it will be worth it.

* * *

“The Free mages have already- pledged themselves, to the service of the Tevinter Imperium,” Grand Enchanter Fiona tells them in the tavern, a stiffness in her mouth as if she’d rather not say the words.

“I am  _so_ thrilled I became a fugitive just so you could sell your people into glorified slavery,” Hawke says to her with a sharpness and viciousness on the edge of his sarcasm, cutting through the room to kill the noise around them. “It has made being chased out of my own home truly worth it!”

It is perhaps a little manipulative that Arthur had hoped that this would be Hawke’s reaction so that he could weaponize it in the Inquisition’s favor, and as a rush of whispers spreads throughout the tavern it seems that it’s all going according to plan.

Fiona is speechless in her disgrace, averting her gaze and Arthur empathizes. Leading is never easy, and to be publicly shamed by the very icon responsible for your entire movement must feel like a slap in the face.

But then the Grand Enchanter frowns, the petite frame of her body tensing as if she is steeling herself, and she looks up to meet Hawke’s condemning stare.

“I did the best that I could,” she says, and Arthur doesn’t doubt that it’s the truth— _her_ truth, if nothing else. She acted in despair and with so few allies that the mages can claim, Arthur can’t help but feel a little sympathy for her.

And that makes what he is about to do to her all the more cruel.

“If this is what your best looks like,” Arthur says, “then it seems the mages made a mistake in choosing you as their leader. Perhaps they should look toward more competent candidates.”

Fiona’s eyes go wide as they flit toward Hawke and the silence in the tavern has never been more pronounced, but what weighs heaviest on Arthur is Hawke’s gaze on him.

The sound of the doors being thrown open breaks through the tension.

“Welcome, my friends!” Alexius declares as he strolls into the tavern as if he owns the place, though his eyes are fixated solely on Arthur. “I apologize for not greeting you earlier.”

This, too, is according to plan, but Arthur has a feeling he may have to pay a price for it.

* * *

Just a scant ten minutes later Hawke is the first one out of the tavern and Arthur follows him, Carver and Cassandra lingering a bit behind as neither seem to want to deal with the fact that Arthur has apparently managed to catch Hawke’s ire.

“It’s not what you think,” Arthur says as soon as the tavern doors close behind their party, wanting to explain himself because in truth it  _isn’t_ what Hawke thinks.

But then Hawke turns around, arms crossed and a look of plain distrust on his face and even though Arthur knows he’s doing the right thing for the Inquisition, he finds himself regretting it anyway.

“Isn’t it?” Hawke looks distinctly unimpressed. “Because if you didn’t just purposefully set me up to become the new leader of the rebel mages, then I’m sure you’ll have no problem clearing everything up.”

“You weren’t meant to—” Arthur cuts himself off, trying to phrase it in a way that won’t just infuriate Hawke even further. “You  _aren’t_ going to be forced into doing anything you don’t want to.”

“This is the real reason why you wanted me along,” Hawke recognizes then, but rather than scowling some more he lets his arms drop by his sides as a look of disappointment flits across his face, and that stings even more than his anger did. 

“Hawke—”

“Would it have been so difficult to take a moment to ask me?” Hawke looks away, eyes narrowing as he scoffs, suddenly so much more like the jaded and bitter man Arthur met three lifetimes ago. “Though that would require you actually care about my opinion, which evidently—”

“Garrett!”

It shuts him up and though Hawke looks indignant at being snapped at, Arthur capitalizes on the opportunity.

Against his better judgment, and maybe a little desperate to fix what he just broke, Arthur takes a step closer until he’s leaning into Hawke’s personal space, just enough so he can whisper clearly without being overheard: “You  _are not_ going to lead the rebel mages. I am.”

Hawke’s anger melts off his face and the tension ebbs out of his posture, replaced by surprise. Arthur watches the shadows of Hawke’s eyelashes flicker on the upper part of his cheeks when he blinks, the brown in his eyes appearing deeper in this light and Arthur is starting to become a little bit lost in them when Hawke finally replies.

“You’re going to conscript them,” Hawke states slowly, gaze trailing over Arthur’s face as if seeing him for the first time. “No, not just that; you’re going to force Fiona out and take over, permanently. I’m still the bait, but that’s the bigger scheme.”

Arthur can’t quite make out whether the look on Hawke’s face is curiosity or wonder or maybe something else entirely, but it definitely beats his anger.

“I’m sorry I ambushed you with this,” Arthur says, feeling a little like a kicked puppy, though perhaps the kick was somewhat justified in this case. “I’m not used to telling people things. When I make plans I sometimes get so eager to carry them out that I forget that everyone else isn’t a mind reader. It won’t happen again, I promise.” 

Hawke considers him for a long moment, until his lips finally curve into a smile that makes Arthur’s heartbeat flutter in his chest and it’s like finding the sun again once the storm has passed, warming his skin.

“Just tell me one more thing,” Hawke says. “Did you know that Felix would pass you that note?”

His lack of surprise at Felix' fainting must have given him away. It’s almost a reflex that makes Arthur want to lie, to hide what he knows, but he made a promise and if nothing else his promises are the one thing he wants to keep whole.

“I did,” Arthur answers honestly, and then Carver steps into the conversation with a suspicious look, standing by his brother’s side.

“How?” he asks. “Do you two know each other?”

“I know that the note isn’t leading us into a trap.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“It’s still an answer,” Arthur responds evenly. “And the only one that matters.”

Carver frowns at him, then looks at Cassandra. “Are we just supposed to go along with this cryptic nonsense, Seeker?”

“If Arthur says it’s not a trap then I believe him,” Cassandra says curtly, not a hint of doubt in her voice and leaving no further room for argument. “We should head to the Chantry as soon as the others are here.” 

Arthur is bemused by her faith in him, not the least because he has made it a point to push her and the others as far away from him as possible, seldom having conversations that venture beyond Inquisition business.

Ordinarily he would assume it to be a simple calculation on Cassandra’s part, seeing as how all of Arthur’s supposed knowledge of “the future” has born fruit and he hasn’t given her a reason to doubt him so far, but that’s not the kind of person Cassandra is.

Her support for him in spite of his aloofness has him feeling immensely grateful and incredibly ashamed all at once.

“Must you always be so paranoid of other people?” Hawke asks Carver, who reacts about as well to this as one would expect.

“I’m just trying to get answers!”

“By implying that, what, the Herald of Andraste is colluding with a Tevinter Magister?”

Carver glowers at him but offers no rebuttal, and thankfully it’s at that moment Arthur spots the rest of their party heading up the village square toward them, though their expressions are rather grim.

“No good news, I take it?” Arthur asks Varric, who exchanges a look with Solas before he shakes his head.

“The Magister was expecting your arrival,” Solas says. “Seeing as how he only arrived himself just today, one would assume he knew of your plans before even stepping foot in Redcliffe.”

“So the note  _is_ a trap!” Carver declares. “The Magister means to lure us all to our deaths!”

“The Magister has nothing to do with the note.” Arthur’s dismissal is stern and quick, setting the distraction aside and turning back to more important matters. “What else?”

“Tranquil skulls,” Fenris says.

Cassandra arches her brows, Carver’s scowl etches deeper into his face and Hawke just tilts his head sideways a little, waiting for the rest of the story.

“Tranquil skulls,” Arthur repeats, looking around the group before his eyes finally settle on Regulus.

Naturally, Arthur already knows about the skulls, but he didn't expect his companions to accidentally stumble onto them this quickly.

“Varric picked the lock on one of the houses by the docks, and we found entire shelves lined with dozens of tranquil skulls,” Regulus explains, a muscle in his jaw twitching when he pauses, his expression tense. “According to the book we found inside, the Venatori have been using them to make some sort of… device that finds magical shards—honestly, I didn’t care to read much of it.”

Arthur folds his arms over his chest, fingers tapping on his arm as he contemplates his options. In truth he had been planning on using the locked house with the tranquil skulls  _after_ killing Alexius, but perhaps he can leverage this over the rebel mages in a more effective way.

“Varric,” he says. “Would you mind taking Grand Enchanter Fiona and a few other mages to see the house? Just a small group, and make sure you’re not followed. I need the rebel mages to understand exactly the kind of horrors Fiona has enabled due to her incompetence.”

Varric stares at him. “Remind me never to piss you off, Wonderboy.”

“You should go along with them, Carver,” Arthur continues smoothly, turning toward the youngest Hawke. “Since you’re so adamant about the Chantry being a trap, and all.”

“Fine,” Carver huffs, turning away and marching right back into the tavern, followed somewhat reluctantly by Varric.

Once they’ve left, Merrill is the first to speak. “What’s this about a Chantry trap? I’ve  _really_ had my fill of those in Kirkwall.”

Arthur smiles somberly and allows Cassandra to do the explaining for him.

Seeing his best friend again is always one of the hardest parts.

* * *

The way a Fade rift ripples its sound through the air, the way it shreds the sky into a high-pitched scream, is something Regulus will never get used to.

It echoes off the walls of the Chantry until it’s a never-ending shrieking, amplifying the cries of the demons that spawn from the rift. Their shapes form on the ground, small whirlpools of green giving way to twisted limbs moving through the holes, stretching outward toward the Chantry’s ceiling and the figures almost look like they’re drowning, until they finally emerge.

As if that wasn’t enough, their party has the added pleasure of dealing with a form of time magic gone wrong that scatters halos of green and yellow light throughout the area, either slowing down or speeding up whoever steps foot in them.

It’s horrifying, and invigorating.

Regulus swings his sword with an eagerness that he could never express before, the opponents he has known up until this point having been exclusively people. He wondered whether meeting a demon for the first time might temper his love for battle, but if anything it has renewed it completely.

He plants his feet firmly on the ground and the muscles in his arms flex to the point of straining as he hurls the large blade around him in a whirlwind that cuts through the legs of a terror demon and through the necks of two other shade demons, the force of it pushing them back and knocking them over.

Arthur and Cassandra take advantage of Regulus’ maneuver to finish off the demons that have been knocked down with quick stabs of their weapons, and Regulus is ready to move onto the next enemy when he’s distracted.

“Oh no you don’t!” he hears someone call above the noise—the mage that lured them here, the one who sent Arthur his note.

Regulus finds him easily in the chaos, battling a rage demon that seems to be giving him some trouble.

Looking around, Regulus notes that most of the demons have been taken care of by now and the few that are left are being kept busy by the rather frighteningly efficient combo of Fenris and Merrill working together.

So, naturally, he aims his greatsword, pulls his arm back, and then  _hurls_ it straight at the rage demon.

The blade spears the rage demon’s side and while the mage looks surprised by the sudden sword literally flying into the midst of his battle, he is quick to take advantage, summoning a bolt of lightning that proves to be the final nail in the coffin as the rage demon lets out a last dying howl before it fades, and Regulus’ sword clatters onto the floorboards.

He hears another demon being felled by one of his companions behind him but Regulus decides to make sure the mage he just saved is alright—Arthur was convinced that the note was sent by a potential ally, and Regulus trusts Arthur’s judgement.

The mage stares at him as Regulus walks up and picks his sword off the ground, nonchalantly returning it to his back.

“Did you just  _throw_ your giant sword at a demon?” the mage says to him with incredulity, while the sound of Arthur’s mark firing up and connecting to the Fade rift flares up behind them.

Regulus shrugs as his lips curl into a slightly smug smirk. “I figured it was faster that way.”

“Just for the record,” the mage says, “I had it completely under the control.”

Even so the mage’s gaze sweeps down and then back up Regulus’ form appreciatively as he says this, allowing Regulus a moment to regard the mage in turn.

He’s dressed in luxurious white-faded fabrics that leave the toned muscles of his arms bare, the golden undertone of his warm beige skin giving a glow to his face in the candlelight of the Chantry. His gray eyes glimmer with mischief, and his perfectly groomed moustache frames the lips below it by accentuating their full shape.

This was definitely not what Regulus was expecting to see when he followed his brother into the Chantry, but only in the best way possible.

“Of course,” Regulus concedes with ease, tone turning a little playful as he inclines his head. “Thank you for permitting me to offer you my assistance, my lord.”

The mage chuckles, a subtle but rich laugh that’s pleasing to Regulus’ ears, before the sound of the rift closing distracts them both.

“Fascinating,” the mage muses, looking toward Arthur now who is watching him and Regulus with a look in his eyes Regulus can’t quite place. “How does that work, exactly?”

“It’s a key,” Arthur answers simply. “I could go into more detail, but we’d be standing here all day.”

The mage hums thoughtfully as he considers Arthur’s answer. “Fair enough—ah, but it seems I’m getting ahead of myself.

“I am Dorian of House Pavus, most recently from Minrathous.” He dips into an easy bow, clearly used to the movement. “How do you do?”

Regulus has to bite the inner side of his cheek before he blurts out the “ _Better now that you’re here_ ,” that’s dying to escape his mouth.

He’ll have plenty of time to flirt later, but first, they have work to do in Redcliffe.

And a Tevinter Magister to kill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> arthur: *is a shady bitch*  
> hawke: you're cute so i'll allow it
> 
> i love dorian sm he's always my inquisitor's BFF in every playthrough, he and cassandra have the best friendships with the inquisitor imo (i'd say varric as well but varric is more hawke's bro than the inquisitor's)


	7. fragile sky, part ii

They stay the night at the Gull and Lantern.

Garrett suspects Alexius is keeping the rebel mages primarily quartered in the arl’s castle so he can watch them more easily; aside from a group in the tavern, he encounters no one. Moreover, what with the Fade rifts appearing outside the village it has created a scarcity in merchants and other travelers who would usually be in need of temporary lodgings.  

All of this means there are several rooms vacant for their party to make use of, though not enough to accommodate them comfortably. It helps that Dorian already has his own quarters somewhere out of sight, but most of them are still going to have to bunk up.

“I’ll share a room with Merrill,” Cassandra says as they all linger downstairs around a table in the tavern.

“Oh.” Merrill looks surprised. “I mean, that’s fine! If you don’t mind.”

Cassandra frowns at her. “Why would I mind? I was the one that suggested it.”

It’s the most obvious decision considering they’re the only two women among the group, but that leaves the men to sort the rest out.

Garrett’s gaze is invariably pulled toward Arthur, sitting at the head of the table but appearing apathetic toward the bedroom-logistics his companions are trying to settle among themselves.

Now, Garrett likes to think of himself as being practical and down-to-earth in most matters, but Maker if this scenario doesn’t sound like it came straight out of the hackneyed romance novels Bethany (and Carver, though he’d sooner die than admit it) used to read.

Oh, look! There’s only one room left in the whole inn with a single bed between the two main characters—looks like they’re going to _have_ to share it. How exciting.

Unfortunately, this situation doesn’t unpack nearly as conveniently for Garrett.

“Someone’s going to be the odd one out,” Varric remarks as he looks around the table and Garrett realizes that he’s right as there are seven of them left, meaning one of them will get to take a room all for themselves. “I volunteer myself as a sacrifice.”

“No way,” Carver protests immediately. “Why should you get the single room? Some of us have just travelled for several days _on foot_ to get to Haven.”

“I’ll share with Arthur,” Regulus says unprompted, clearly not paying attention to the argument as his eyes linger on the shapely legs of a barmaid walking past their table.

Arthur’s older brother seems to be a bit of libertine, and coming from Garrett that says a lot. Not that Garrett is judging him for it.

Regulus is a rather striking image of masculinity. His rugged looks, his scars and his distinctive green eyes would catch anyone’s attention. Although he’s not Garrett’s type romantically—not nearly mysterious and aloof enough—Garrett would have entertained a tumble into bed or two.

Were it not for the fact that his brother is Arthur.

“Shouldn’t Arthur get the single room?” Merrill wonders out loud with impeccable timing, complimenting the turn Garrett’s thoughts just made towards their resident messiah. “Since he’s our leader, and all.”

Carver looks confused, glancing toward Cassandra. “Isn’t the Seeker technically higher ranked?”

“The title of _Herald_ isn’t a rank,” Cassandra answers without preamble, clearly having no patience to entertain the debate any further. “I defer to Arthur out on the field because I trust his judgement, but none of that has any bearing on sharing tavern rooms. Sort it out among yourselves, I am going to sleep.”

And the Seeker walks away.

“I should probably go as well?” Merrill says.

Carver tilts his head at her. “Why did you say that like it’s a question?”

“Because Cassandra is terrifying and I don’t actually want to go.”

“Ah.” Carver smiles sympathetically. “Understandable.”

“She won’t give you any trouble, Merrill,” Arthur says to reassure her, the first words he’s spoken during the discussion. “Cassandra prefers to give people space.”

Merrill’s shoulders ease, visibly relieved. “That’s good. In that case, I guess I’ll also go to bed. Good night everyone!”

After she’s left, however, there’s still the question of sharing rooms for the rest of them.

This really shouldn’t be this hard, Garrett thinks as he listens to Varric drag Fenris into the discussion. In truth it’s all very lighthearted, an excuse for banter and a bit of team-bonding among the group. Varric has always been good at that.

But as Garrett glances at Arthur again, their fearsome leader looks completely lost in his own world. Arthur’s elbows are on the table, his hands folded underneath his chin and the look in his eyes glazed over as he stares at the aged surface of wood. The way his head is tilted downwards accentuates the dark circles underneath his eyes, shadows from candlelight emphasizing the gauntness of his cheeks.

It’s an expression Garrett has seen on him many times before during their journey to Redcliffe; it always looks so very heavy on him. The same way it looked heavy on Garrett’s father when he thought his children weren’t looking, or on his brother when they had to leave Bethany’s body behind, or on his mother after Carver had joined the templars.

Garrett doesn’t like to carry heavy things because he knows exactly how much the weight can drag one down, but he likes it even less to see others carrying it.

“I nominate Arthur,” Garrett says and Arthur blinks and looks up at him, startled out of his thoughts. “The rest of us can share.”

He can see Regulus staring at him from the corner of his eyes, but it doesn’t matter because after Garrett’s input the issue is settled rather quickly. Varric decides to room with Solas, which leads to Carver rooming with Fenris out of familiarity, and that leaves Garrett and Regulus to share.

Not the ideal outcome, but Garrett has to smile a little at how close he got.

They don’t all turn in immediately, though Solas and Fenris are the first two to go. Garrett has the impression Solas is the more reserved sort, and despite the strides Fenris has made he still isn’t comfortable in a room full of mages.

Varric and Carver however separate from their table to get some drinks at the counter where they linger for a while, leaving Garrett with the company of the two Trevelyan brothers.

Seeing as how they are undoubtedly being watched by Venatori spies, they’ll have to keep to lighter subjects for conversation—something that comes very naturally to the oldest Trevelyan.

“I thought uncle Octavian was going to have a stroke,” Regulus says between his laughter. “And Celia is standing there, her shoe in her hand and two templars passed out behind her, and she just puts her shoe back on and smooths out her dress and says, _am I late for the dinner party_?”

Garrett shakes his head in disbelief; he met Arcelia only very briefly and the grace and poise in her manners reminded him a lot of his mother, though he can’t say his mother ever knocked out two templars with the heel of her shoe.

“No offense, but your sister sounds about as terrifying as Cassandra.”

“She’s not,” Regulus replies, pausing to take a swig from his drink. “As long as you’re not a total dick, you’ve got nothing to fear from her.”

“Noted,” Garrett says as his lips curl with some amusement, though he wonders what would qualify being ‘a total dick’ in the first place.

He looks toward Arthur, expecting him to be staring off somewhere again but instead finds Arthur’s gaze on him, clearly having been watching him. The second their eyes meet across the table Garrett’s heartbeat skips while Arthur blinks in surprise and like a pair of complete juveniles they both quickly look away, pretending nothing happened.

It’s not often that Garrett loses his footing in social interactions and he assumes it’s just because he hadn’t been expecting it, but that doesn’t explain the flutter in his chest or the inexplicable way his attention keeps being drawn to Arthur.

“You know,” Regulus says slowly as he glances between Garrett and Arthur, “I have quite a few stories about Arthur as well.”

Arthur laughs a little, fond and embarrassed at the same time, even a little bit shy and damn if it isn’t charming. “Let’s not.”

“What, you don’t want Hawke to know about that time you secretly kept an injured bird in your bedroom?”

Several things go through Garrett’s mind at once, but the first thing is, “Why secretly?”

Arthur shifts in his seat, looking very self-conscious. “I was nine years old and somehow got it into my head that mother would feed it to her dogs if she found out.”

“Mother enjoys hunting,” Regulus clarifies to Garrett. “Although not baby birds, last I checked.”

“As I said, _I was nine_.”

“That’s adorable,” Garrett says honestly, very much enjoying the ensuing blush darkening Arthur’s cheeks.

“My first pet.” Arthur smiles, sweet but also fleeting, like a glimpse into something very private that Garrett wishes he could see more of. “Mother found out and made me set it free once it could fly again.”

That sweet, fleeting smile stays with Garrett throughout the evening, even long after everyone has already turned in for the night and he’s getting ready for bed alone in the shared room meant for him and Regulus—a bare space just big enough for two beds, a table and two chairs.

He doesn’t know why he keeps thinking about it. Maybe it was something about the subtle curve of Arthur’s lips, or maybe it was the look in his eyes softening at a memory.

Maybe it was the vulnerability of it, the same way Arthur looked the night they first met, curled up against the wall with his hands in his hair and breathing hard like he was on the verge of crying, but this time Garrett hadn’t walked in on him.

This time, it was something Arthur _chose_ to share with him.  

“Maker have mercy,” Garrett sighs aloud, lying on his bed and staring up at the ceiling by himself while his roommate is still downstairs drinking. “I’m turning into a romantic.”

A rather new development, not in the least because his personal experience is limited entirely to casual flings. Not by design, it just so happened that spending most of his life as an apostate made it hard to form lasting romantic attachments; he wouldn’t wish the life of a runaway on anyone, especially not someone he cared for.

He thought it might get better if he got out of Lothering for a while after father died, but then the Blight happened and he had his family to worry about, a new city and a new life to adjust to. Not a year later came the Deep Roads expedition, and then he got a mansion, and then the Qunari overran the city, and then the mages and the templars had a civil war, and then one of his closest friends betrayed him and he was right back to the start.

Back to being a runaway.

Suffice to say Garrett’s life hasn’t afforded him much in the way of love. No one in his inner circle of friends inspired much more than lust, and Isabela’s bed was satisfying enough for that, but she was never someone Garrett could bring himself to open up to without worrying about how it might come back to bite him later.

Fenris and Anders—being the other two Garrett occasionally felt attracted to—each had a whole host of issues and personal traumas that Garrett didn’t have the energy to spare for, and unfortunately neither of them were the ‘no strings attached’ type that Isabela was.

So now he finds himself here in uncharted territory, unable to fall asleep because he’s daydreaming about a man’s smile. This has never happened to him before. Garrett isn’t quite sure what to do about it.

He supposes that what he’s really been looking for is a safe haven, one he couldn’t find in any of his friends who relied far more on him than he relied on them. No wonder he’s drawn in by Arthur, who feels like an equal to him rather than someone to take care of.

But maybe that’s just the budding romantic in him talking again.

“You barely know the man,” Garrett tells himself tiredly. “Just go to sleep.”

Besides, falling in love with the Herald of Andraste would be practically begging the universe to serve him another tragedy on a silver platter, and he’s had quite enough of those in one lifetime.

Not that he’s falling in love, because he isn’t.

Not even a little bit.

(But that _smile_.)

* * *

The next morning Dorian heads for the old windmill that, according to the Herald, hides a secret passageway leading to Redcliffe castle. It’s a disused tunnel meant as an escape route for the family should the need ever arise, perfect for slipping inside unseen.

If memory serves him well, the Herald and only about half of his companions should be in the castle. The Herald instructed a small group of four other companions to stay behind in the village and hunt down any Venatori agents left to prevent them from escaping.

Once Dorian arrives at the windmill—cloaked to disguise himself—he finds three Inquisition agents already present. One of them turns to him, their head covered in a hood and a cloth tied around the lower half of their face like all the others, though Dorian can make out a bit of pale skin surrounding dark eyes.

“You’re here,” the agent, or rather, the spy says. “Good, you’re right on time. We finished sweeping the tunnel and the way ahead is clear of any potential threats.”

Dorian arches his brows. “You know who I am?”

The spy points to the staff on his back.

“You mages aren’t very good at being inconspicuous,” they reply dryly. “Go on ahead, my men and I will be right behind you.”

Dorian considers the spy as he lowers his hood and glances toward the opened hatch in the corner of the windmill, a ladder leading down into the dark tunnel below.

“I suppose you’ve been watching me since the meeting in the Chantry?”

The spy doesn’t reply, not that Dorian was expecting otherwise.

Descending into a dark, dank hole covered in dust and dirt isn’t exactly his idea of a nice Tuesday morning, and as he steps off the ladder he’s relieved that it’s a sizable tunnel and will make for a comfortable enough walk.

He doesn’t bother waiting for the spy and the other agents, lighting up the darkness with a flick of his wrist as fire sprouts right above his palm. Behind him he hears the others sliding down the ladder one by one as he starts to walk, though it isn’t long until the spy from before appears by his side.

“I’m curious,” Dorian says, never having done well with silence. “Why did you join the Inquisition?”

The spy does not turn their head to look, though Dorian thinks he sees their eyes flick his way in the light of his fire. “I was already in the Left Hand’s employ when the Conclave was attacked.”

“And you just continued to serve?” Dorian has heard stories of the Inquisition’s spymaster. Certainly she’s not someone to cross, but considering the circumstances he would expect anyone to quit their job at that point. “That’s very loyal of you.”

“It’s got nothing to do with loyalty,” the spy scoffs. “The first time I laid eyes on that Breach, I knew there was no running from it. Figured I might as well stay and do my part to help save the world, or what have you.”

“How has that been working out for you?”

The spy’s sincere answer surprises him. “It’s going well—no, better than that. The first few days were a disaster, but after the Herald woke up…”

Dorian waits patiently for the spy to continue, though he can’t help but lean in a little, his curiosity awoken.

His own meeting with the Herald was anticlimactic at first, though that was entirely his own fault. Even though he knew better the rumors had made him wonder, and once he finally met the Inquisition’s appointed savior in person Dorian was slightly disappointed to find that Arthur Trevelyan was simply a man like any other.

But as their conversation drew on something changed. Dorian can’t quite put it into words, but there was something about him, something about the way he looked at Dorian, like he knew him from the inside out.

It was unsettling.

“After the Herald woke up?” Dorian prompts when the spy remains silent.

“After he woke up, everything seemed to…” The spy pauses. “Fit.”

“In what way?”

“We became organized,” the spy answers vaguely, likely not wanting to hand out any details to a stranger, Herald-approved or no. “Structure, chain of command, logistics, everything needed to run a place like Haven almost seemed to appear overnight. It took longer than that, of course, but it didn’t feel that long.

“And then what he did in the Hinterlands!” The spy shakes their head. “It’s been like civil war out there for months with the templars and mages raging against each other, yet he cleaned that whole place up in a matter of _weeks_.”

“I’ve heard the stories,” Dorian says, and he can’t help but feel a bit skeptical. “But I have a hard time believing one man can make such a difference.”    

The spy shrugs. “It’s strange, I know. From what I heard, he’s some nobleman’s son from the Free Marches. Never seen a day in any army, never had any experience leading before, yet you’d think we were serving a seasoned military general.”

Dorian hums but doesn’t say much more than that, pondering on his meeting with Trevelyan yesterday. Was that same man—young in his face yet old in his eyes, quiet and somber—really responsible for everything the spy just described?

He’ll just have to wait and see for himself.

“We’re here,” the spy says, gesturing to a set of stone stairs leading up into the castle that should be right above them. “Are you ready? The Herald should be having the meeting with the Magister right now.”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Dorian mutters, steeling himself for reuniting with his old mentor as he takes the first step with the Inquisition spy right behind him.

He expects to find many things as he and the Inquisition agents make their way from the basement of the castle to the great hall where Alexius is likely meeting the Herald. Namely he expects Alexius to be in the middle of some trite speech or another trying to justify all this, or perhaps sneering about how ignorant his opponent truly is—

What he finds instead is a room full of corpses.

In the center, atop the short steps in front of Alexius’ throne, stands the Herald like the eye of a storm while a few of his companions linger close. He’s calmly staring down at Alexius who is on his knees in front of him, staring out over the fallen bodies of the Venatori littered around the great hall and appearing utterly broken, his right hand bleeding. Felix is a few paces behind him, staring at the back of his father’s head with a pained expression.

Dorian can’t mask his shock. “What…?”

The Herald turns around at the sound of his voice and looks down at Dorian as if he arrived exactly the way he was expected to, and something about that—the knowing, the certainty, the look in his eyes—makes the hairs on Dorian’s arms stand up.

But it’s someone else that addresses him first.

“You missed out on all the fun.”

Hawke’s voice comes from somewhere on Dorian’s left, and Dorian finds him in the shadows behind the pillars of the hall, accompanied by several other Inquisition agents who are already busy cleaning up the bodies.

The illustrious Champion seems to have done a bit of looting, toying with a Tevinter-made dagger between his fingers, trying to flip it a certain way in his hand but not quite being smooth enough to do it.

Unlike the Herald’s other companions who stay near him, Hawke has wandered off completely; Dorian gets the feeling he has a certain independence the others don’t. That would make sense, as Dorian can’t imagine seeing the Champion of Kirkwall being ordered around by someone else, even if it is the Herald of Andraste.

“A massacre isn’t my definition of fun,” Dorian says slowly, glancing back toward Alexius. “Though I am a bit peeved at being left out.”

The Herald turns fully toward him then and says something that has Dorian even more worried about what he has gotten himself into with the Inquisition:

“Don’t worry, I can still make use of your talents.”

* * *

“You have no idea what you are up against,” Alexius spits at Arthur’s feet, who is too busy motioning Dorian to come closer to dignify it with a response.

“I’m in need of your expertise,” Arthur admits to his old friend as Dorian reluctantly moves up the steps to join him in front of the throne. “Specifically concerning time magic.”

“Take the Magister away,” Cassandra orders the agents that have just arrived with Dorian in the meantime. “We’ve a cell waiting for him in Haven.”

They do as ordered, though that doesn’t stop Alexius from continuing his miserable threats. “You have all doomed yourselves to—”

He spots Dorian.

“ _You_.” Alexius’ eyes are wide in fury. “You lead them here!”

Dorian shakes his head. “Your hubris lead them here, Alexius. You have no one to blame but yourself for this.”  

“None of you stand a chance!” Alexius shouts, almost crazed. “You have no idea of the power—”

“Shut up,” one of the agents finally snaps as they continue to drag him along, all but yanking him down the steps.

Dorian watches, crossing his arms and averting his gaze as Alexius is all but carried out of the great hall before he looks back at Arthur with a deep frown. “I assume this is about the amulet over there?”

He points to the necklace lying on the floor where Alexius dropped it after Arthur cut his hand with a well-placed throw of one of his knives, which was the cue for the Inquisition agents to take out the Venatori.

Arthur nearly forgot about it once the threat of it was eliminated, too distracted trying to decide whether he should come clean with the truth about his involuntary time-traveling at all.

Perhaps Dorian’s explanation for the amulet will provide him some clarity.

Arthur walks over and bends down to pick up the amulet, thinking nothing of it, thinking the threat has passed and he is safe—

He should have known better.

As soon as his fingers close around it, white-hot pain bursts inside his nerves and flares into a crack of green lightning rippling up his arm and lighting up the whole room.

It locks up his muscles as Arthur’s legs give out, his lips parted in a soundless scream as he falls. Someone catches him by the arm, keeping him from collapsing on the floor.

“I’ve got you!” Hawke says, carefully lowering him to his knees.

The ache is so severe Arthur can’t think beyond it, but he can make out the other panicked voices around him contrasting Hawke’s calm presence by his side.

“What is happening?” Cassandra, standing somewhere in front of him.

“Whatever it is, we need to stop it.” Varric, somewhere over his shoulder. “And quick.”

“Get the amulet away from him!” Dorian, near Cassandra. “It’s reacting to his mark!”

A hand closes around Arthur’s fist, the excruciating torrent of energy pulsing through Arthur’s veins interrupted by a shock of foreign but familiar magic. For an instant Arthur feels the warmth of a flame surging before it’s drowned out again by the Anchor’s _screaming_.

“I can’t!” Hawke again, trying to pry his fingers open to get the amulet out of his grasp, but Arthur can’t so much as move a muscle and Hawke’s magic has little effect. “He won’t let go!”

The focal point of agony is in the center of his palm, maybe in the mark or maybe from the amulet. Sweat builds on the back of Arthur’s neck, his jaw clenching so tightly that he’s afraid he’s going to break through his teeth and his whole body seizes up. He can’t so much as twitch his fingers anymore.

But then beneath that, Arthur feels the first stirrings of something strange tingling in his bones. He’s no longer in control of his body so he doesn’t know why the pain slowly begins to subside, but it drains from him gradually, cooling him down and numbing him in cold waves, and that’s not all.

The Anchor’s magic that has ripped its way up Arthur’s arm shrinks back into his hand, concentrated on that single spot on his palm where the mark and the amulet meet, and releases Arthur’s body from its grasp.

Finally able to breathe as his muscles go slack Arthur gasps for air, his right arm trembling but not visibly scarred. What there is left of the pain that hasn’t been numbed has at least been dulled; it’s soreness more than anything else.

The Anchor is quiet.

“Easy.” Hawke’s hand is still wrapped around his, the only thing steadying him. “You’re alright.”

No, he’s not. Something is wrong here. There’s still a pressure sitting right beneath Arthur’s skin, inside his hand. He feels it swelling but he has no idea what to do about it. This has never happened to him before.

“ _Are_ you alright?” Dorian asks, kneeling down in front of him and eyeing Arthur’s palm warily. “What was all that?”

He slowly opens his hand to reveal the amulet on his palm, intending to take a closer look. “I don’t know."

Dorian reaches forward tentatively as if to test the magic hovering like a thick cloud around both Arthur and Garrett’s clasped hands—

The Anchor sparks to life and the amulet glows green.

He feels it coming right before it happens, but is powerless to stop it.

_“NO!”_

The mark explodes outwards into a silent black void, and swallows everything whole.

* * *

Fire.

Dorian recognizes the scent as his mind struggles to snap awake, but it’s not quite the same as burning wood or coal. There’s a foul undercurrent to it—

Fire, burning flesh.

The nauseating odor all but startles him into consciousness, not the least because he has no memory of setting anyone on fire recently. As his eyelids flutter open and he first becomes aware of the sheet of snow pressed against his cheek, Dorian wakes to find himself lying outside in the dead of night, unpleasant pricks of pain plaguing the fingers of his right hand.

It is the same hand he brushed against the energy singing through the Herald’s mark.

“Arthur?”

For a single confused moment Dorian thinks the sound came from his own throat, but his lips are firmly shut and the voice is too deep to belong to him besides.

He lifts his head off the snow, and the first thing he sees is utterly incomprehensible.

Stretched out in front of him is a battlefield, drenching the snow with spots of red and black. The remains of a shattered ballista is scattered over the ground as if it were ripped apart by a giant. Just a few feet on his left Dorian finds the lost helmet of a soldier, part of its steel torn open and blood-spattered.

On his right—

The Herald’s prone form, much like Dorian found himself upon first awakening, except the Herald’s eyes are still closed.

“Dammit.” Beside him is Hawke, grabbing Trevelyan by the shoulders and turning him over onto his back. “Arthur!”

To Dorian’s surprise Trevelyan actually stirs, eyelids blinking open with a groan before he squeezes them shut again. Dorian notices the glow of the Anchor on his palm, a sickly green but no longer polluting the air with magic. But more importantly, Alexius’ amulet is still clenched tightly in Arthur’s hand.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” Dorian mutters, and Hawke looks at him for the first time, as if having just noticed that he was also present. A bit offensive, that.

“Where are we?” Hawke asks him, though he quickly goes back to fussing over Trevelyan who is slowly trying to sit up, his free hand pressed to his temple as it looks like he’s sporting quite the headache. “Hey, easy now.”

Dorian pushes himself off the ground, shaking the snow and the dirt off his robes before he does a full turn to take in his surroundings.

Those mountains—all the way out in the Frostback? That shouldn’t be possible.

He turns behind them and finds a gated wall, or the remains of one. Its wood is just as ruined as the ballista in front of them, the fires still eating away at its carcass the only source of light for miles.

“I don’t recognize this place,” Dorian muses, part of him fascinated by their displacement. “Somewhere near the Frostback Mountains, but—”

He hears sharp gasp from beside him. When he looks he sees Trevelyan staring at the ruined gates with his eyes wide and his skin almost as pale as the snow beneath him, lower lip quivering for a moment before his jaw clenches tight and he sits there as if a statue; Dorian has seldom seen a man look so haunted.

“Arthur?” Hawke glances toward Dorian for an exchange of worried looks before he gently touches on Trevelyan’s upper arm, trying to draw his attention.

But Trevelyan’s eyes are fixed on the village—slowly, his lips begin to move. He mutters so softly Dorian can barely make out the words, but what he does hear sounds frantic.

“I can’t, I can’t be back here… can’t be…”

Hawke grabs Trevelyan by both his shoulders and shifts in front of him to block his view. “You need to snap out of it.”

Trevelyan’s eyes refocus on Hawke and something in his face breaks wide-open.

He shoves Hawke’s hands aside and moves back and away from him on the snow, clumsily scrambling up to his feet as his breaths start coming out heavy and strained. There’s nothing left of the graceful man Dorian witnessed commanding the room back in Redcliffe, as if replaced by a pale shadow.

Whatever this place is, Trevelyan knows it and it’s having a terrible effect on him.

“We can go back,” Dorian tells him, and that actually manages to catch Trevelyan’s attention. “You still have the amulet, and with it I’ll be able to figure something out. It may take some time, but I can get us back home.”

The look in Trevelyan’s eyes wavers briefly and Dorian glimpses the fear—no, _despair_. But something about Dorian must have reassured him, because even though he looks like he’s about to all but drop dead on the spot, Arthur breathes in deep and then nods stiffly.

“I know you can,” he says without hesitation.

“Okay, what am I missing here?” Hawke interrupts, glancing from Arthur to Dorian. “Arthur grabbed the amulet, his mark went crazy, then a portal opened and we woke up here.”

“The amulet was only meant to be used for a time spell,” Dorian answers absently, thinking. “But the Herald’s mark reacted very oddly to it... we were transported both in time _and_ space, but is this the future or the past?”

Arthur is the one who responds, his voice a rasp in his throat. “Neither.”

Dorian turns back to look at Arthur over his shoulder, at his ashen complexion and hollow eyes. “You recognize it.”  

“This place… it’s… it’s a world that shouldn’t exist.” Arthur looks around, his glazed over gaze trailing over the damage as if he’s only partly present. “One that I created, through my failure.” 

Hawke, reassured that Arthur isn’t about to bolt away into the night, looks around for the first time and something dawns in his expression, lips parting in shock.

“It can’t be,” he says softly, staring at the burning gates. “How did this happen?”

“You know this place as well?” Dorian asks, curious despite the foreboding feeling building in his gut.

“Not like this, this is…” Hawke trails off and Dorian looks at Arthur, standing there in the snow with an unnatural stillness.

He’s staring at the burning gates again, the crackling of fire eating through wood dimmed in the sound of the icy wind blowing across the plains of snow. When he finally opens his mouth, Dorian almost wishes he never asked.

“We’re in Haven.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been dying to get to this part and it's finally here! in all its angsty glory!! this is going to be so much fun


	8. breaking

Regulus hurries up the steps of Redcliffe Castle, his heart pounding like an insistent drum beating frantically against his ribs. He doesn’t get very far before he spots Cassandra and Varric waiting by the gates.

“What happened?” Regulus demands, slightly out of breath from the speed at which he all but ran to the castle once he heard the news from a messenger.

The others—Solas, Fenris, Merrill and Carver—are right behind him.

Cassandra turns to him with a grim expression on her face, her crossed arms hiding the symbol of the eye etched into her chest plate. “We don’t know.”

“They fell through a portal,” Varric adds, a deep wrinkle between his brows. “It came from the amulet so it was probably some sort of time spell, but without the amulet here there’s not much else we can do aside from interrogating Alexius.”

“So, that’s it?” Regulus glances between the two of them, but neither of them have any further answers for him. “We just have to… what, sit here and wait until they hopefully come back somehow?”

“Your brother’s not alone in this, Rebel,” Varric says, trying to reassure him. “He’s got Hawke, remember? Plus the guy who helped Alexius invent the spell in the first place. I’m sure they’ll figure out a way.”

Regulus takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself before he punches something—or someone.

It doesn’t help.

“Fuck.”

Varric sighs.

“Yeah.”

* * *

Arthur sits in front of a small fireplace inside an abandoned little cottage, a ways off the road that leads to Haven. He’s huddled up in a thin blanket, as close to the fire as he can be without scorching himself, but the cold has settled into his bones now and he fears he will never be warm again.

He can hear murmurs of the conversation happening behind his back, sometimes single words, sometimes parts of sentences, but he has no need to eavesdrop. After what Arthur told them about this world, this place that shouldn’t be, he can hardly blame them for being cautious.

Doubtlessly Hawke and Dorian both think he lost his mind.

And hasn’t he, in a way?

Arthur would not blame them if they decide that he’s too unstable to rely upon. It is what happened in his previous lifetime, in the world that they find themselves in now.

Upon awakening in the dungeons for a third time, maddened by hysteria and grief as he still remembered watching his closest friends get torn apart by demons in Adamant Fortress, Arthur spilled everything to Cassandra and Leliana then and there.

He told them about the looping in time, he told them about his previous lifetimes and tried to warn them about Corypheus. That turned out to be a terrible mistake.

They allowed him to seal the Breach out of necessity, but afterwards they judged his mind too damaged by whatever he had seen in the Fade and locked him up in the dungeons once more.

Solas was the only one who believed him back then. A strange twist of fate; Arthur recalls the way he would often come down to the dungeons to speak to Arthur. There was little Solas could do to convince everyone that Arthur was speaking the truth, considering his own position within the Inquisition was hardly secure. To his credit, he did finally manage to persuade Cassandra to release Arthur, if only because Arthur was the only one capable of sealing the rifts.

But it cost them precious time, weeks they did not have to spare.

The worst part of it was that Arthur _knew_ Corypheus was coming, knew the date as if it were engraved into his heart. But just as no one believed him about Corypheus, no one listened when he told them they needed to leave Haven either.

And so Corypheus came, and Haven burned.

Shuddering, Arthur curls further into himself. The longer he stares at the flames dancing in the fireplace, the hungrier they seem. When the memory of the screams start echoing louder in his mind, Arthur can’t bear to look any longer and closes his eyes.

He hears footsteps approaching him, slow but with intent. It’s a confident gait he’s starting to recognize, one that leads to someone sitting down on the floor beside him, an arm brushing against his.

“So,” Hawke says. “Time travel.”

Arthur does not respond, but he does open his eyes. When he peers at Hawke from his peripheral vision, he sees Hawke staring into the fire with a quiet gaze.

His expression is at ease, but there are shadows hiding beneath his eyes and weariness tucked in the corners of his mouth.

It’s not quite fatigue—resignation, maybe.

“Dorian thinks he will need the power of your mark to get us back to our- time,” Hawke says, then pauses briefly before trying to correct himself. “World? I don’t know what to call it.”

Arthur glances over his shoulder and spots Dorian sitting on a rickety old chair in the corner, hunched over a desk as flashes of green light occasionally flare from the amulet he is working on fixing. The intricacies are lost on him, but Arthur does remember that the spell itself took an hour to work out last time this happened.

“Does he have any theories?” Arthur asks, his voice slightly hoarse from all the talking he did earlier.

“The amulet was meant to perform a time spell,” Hawke says, head tilting slightly as his expression turns pensive, glancing at Arthur. “But once your mark became connected to it, it became more than just a time spell.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” Dorian speaks loudly from his spot by the desk, still fiddling with the amulet, “that you’ve transported us into an alternate reality.”

Arthur frowns slowly, trying to wrap his head around the concept. “An alternate reality? But how does that… I thought once I died—”

“That your old timeline stopped existing?” Dorian finishes his sentence. “Apparently not, as you’ve just proven the existence of parallel universes by quite literally transporting us into one.”

It makes sense. The amulet may bend time, but Arthur's Anchor can create portals leading to and from the Fade. Having those two things mix with each other means Arthur just accidentally created portals that go through both time  _and_ space into not just different dimensions, but different realities. 

Hawke sighs. “Is it too early for me to retire?”

“You see,” Dorian continues unabashed, tucking the amulet away in a pocket and turning around on his chair to face them, “when you died, the world around you didn't simply disappear into thin air. It evidently continues to exist without you. In other words, you haven’t simply gone back in time; you’ve created a new world entirely.

“What I don’t understand is _why_.” Dorian’s eyes flit to Arthur’s hand, clenched into the blanket with a white-knuckled grip. “It must be the Anchor, but why did it bring you back? Is it an attempt at self-preservation? And how does it—”

“Dorian,” Hawke says sharply, looking at Arthur’s pale face.

“Then, when I…” Arthur breathes in shakily. “When I died… when Corypheus won and killed everyone, it was all real.”

All the death, the destruction, it's still here. While Arthur woke up somewhere new, this stayed here, broken forever. And Arthur abandoned them.

He abandoned everyone, four times over. 

“It’s not that simple,” Dorian intervenes quickly. “That timeline still exists, yes, but so do the ones where he doesn’t win, where he loses everything, or perhaps even timelines where he never existed in the first place. There are infinite possibilities, infinite realities. You are not responsible for an entire universe—what an egotistical thought!”

Strangely, that does help him calm down a bit. Considering this rationally, he knows he can't spend the rest of his life trying to make up for his mistakes, and there is no way to truly control how this spell works. Even if he could jump through realities at will, what should he do? Go back to every world he left behind and try to fix it?

Arthur looks down at the mark glowing dimly on his palm, hatred surging up into his chest for a moment before he takes another breath to regain his composure.

“I always knew the Anchor was the cause of it,” Arthur murmurs. “But there was never enough time to study it, and I think… perhaps I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” Hawke asks, shifting slightly beside him and Arthur then remembers the press of Hawke’s arm against his own, noticing the heat of Hawke’s body seeping in through the blanket between them. It’s a small comfort, far warmer than the fire.   

“Of dying, I suppose.” Arthur raises his hand, thinks the indistinct shape of the mark seems sharper but maybe that’s simply his imagination. “With this, I’ll always have a second chance.”

It was always a dilemma for him. His thoughts may have grown increasingly suicidal, but at the same time the thought of actually dying and never waking up was equally as terrifying as the thought of this being an endless prison. He still doesn't know what he would choose, if he were able.

The silence in the room is loaded with unspoken words—Arthur grows tired of it.

“If you have questions, ask them.” Arthur pulls the blanket more tightly around himself, hiding his marked hand underneath it once more. “I was admittedly rather vague in my explanation earlier.”

“You said that you died once before and were sent back in time,” Dorian recounts, a slow pace to his words as he chooses them carefully. Whether it is out of consideration for Arthur or his own need to be as accurate as possible, Arthur could not say. “You woke up in the dungeons of Haven, right after the Conclave, and tried to warn everyone about Corypheus. They did not believe you, kept you locked up and allowed Corypheus to build his armies, which lead to him razing Haven to the ground.

“That’s the world we’re in now,” he concludes. “The one you left behind when you died for a second time.”

“Fourth time.”

Dorian frowns. “I’m sorry?”

There’s no point in obscuring the truth, other than to spare himself. Perhaps if it had been anyone else here with him other than Dorian and Hawke, Arthur would’ve kept his secrets.

But part of him has been aching to take this burden off his shoulders for years, and he feels safe here. He knows he can trust Dorian with his life, and while Arthur does not know Hawke in the same way, Hawke would understand the weight of it the more than anyone else.

“It was the fourth time I died,” Arthur says and then it floods his mouth, pouring out of his lips like a dam broken through. “I’ve lived this life four times before; this would be my fifth. I defeated Corypheus once, the very first time, but then I was betrayed. I suppose that’s when the Anchor trapped me in this loop, perhaps to save my life.

“So much time has passed that I don’t even remember how old I am anymore.” Arthur hugs himself underneath the blanket, not looking at either Dorian or Hawke and keeping his gaze aimed into the fire, not wishing to see their reactions. “I’ve seen so much death I can no longer distinguish my memories from my nightmares. The reason I told them the truth in my fourth life was because I was losing my mind. When I witnessed Haven’s destruction and died again, I wanted so desperately to never wake up that when I did, I- I almost—”

He felt delirious as he followed Cassandra, playing along with a smile plastered on his face until the bridge broke, and they fell, and Arthur found the daggers lying on the ground.

Had Cassandra not needed him, he might have plunged the blade into his own heart.

But she did need him, as the people of Haven needed him, as all of Thedas needed him because of the mark on his hand and as exhausted as Arthur was, as bloodied and scarred and broken as he was, he still could not find it in himself to turn his back on them.

Arthur struggles to breathe, his heart feeling like an open wound bleeding over with every beat—he feels a hand sliding up on his back. Its callused palm curls around the back of his neck as its fingers tangle in his hair and Arthur’s breath catches quietly in his throat for an entirely different reason.

He almost forgot the gentle relief a simple touch could bring. His eyes flutter shut as he leans back into the warmth of it, his senses overwhelmed, and for a rare blissful moment all he can feel is the soothing motions of Hawke’s thumb caressing his skin.

“I’m sorry,” Hawke says softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Arthur has suppressed it for so long that when the need for closeness suddenly swells up inside of him—wanting so desperately for Hawke to hold him closer—that he almost gives in, but the fear of what it might mean is the only thing that stops him.

There are footsteps, prompting Arthur to open his eyes again and then Dorian comes into view, standing beside the fireplace and looking down at Arthur with a deep furrow between his brows before he kneels down in front of him.

“You’ve met us before, haven’t you?” Dorian says quietly.

Arthur glances at Hawke whose hand is still on his skin, maybe the only thing keeping Arthur from falling apart. “Hawke only once before, briefly, but you… yes. I’ve known you for a very long time.”

“I thought there was something strange about the way you looked at me,” Dorian muses, eyes trailing over Arthur’s face as if looking at him might bring back the memories he never had. “Were we close?”

“You were my best friend,” Arthur admits wistfully, a twinge of sadness in his smile. “Every time.”

Dorian’s eyes widen; he looks almost rattled by the thought. He hasn’t found himself yet, hasn’t found his purpose yet in this life. It must be a difficult thing for him to imagine when he has only known Arthur for a little over a day, and Arthur knows that claiming such a close friendship when Dorian has been a pariah all his life is no small thing.

“I don’t expect anything from you, Dorian,” Arthur says, trying to be reassuring even if the thought of not having Dorian by his side hurts a little. “You don’t owe me anything, and I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t,” Dorian says, and Arthur can’t quite read the frown on his face. “I only—”

Hawke’s hand on Arthur’s neck, having been a pleasant weight this whole time, suddenly drops away.

“Hush,” Hawke cuts in with a hiss, sharp gaze fixed on the windows of the cottage.

There are shadows outside, moving around in the snow.

Hawke makes to move toward the windows but Arthur grabs him by the arm and stops him with a firm shake of his head.

Stealth should be left to Arthur.

He shrugs the blanket off his shoulders and slowly regulates his breathing, shifting into a crouch as he steps into the shadows of the cottage, blending in with soundless footsteps as he disappears into the darkness.

Approaching the windows with caution, Arthur leans back against the wall beside one as he slowly leans closer and peers through the edge of the glass.

One person that he can see, armored—glowing cracks in the metal plates on his chest, red lyrium gleaming as the corrupted templar turns around and addresses someone to the right of him, just out of Arthur’s vision.

“Looks empty.”

Arthur breathes out as noiselessly as he can, and though the templar glances right at him his eyes then slide over him without pause. Stealth was one of the few skills that came most naturally to Arthur when he first started his training; only the most perceptive enemies are able to detect him now.

He turns to Hawke and Dorian who have both quietly moved toward the wall beside the door, preparing to ambush the templars.

“We should make sure,” Arthur hears the other templar say. “Check inside.”

He watches the first templar draw closer to the cottage, his eyes meeting Hawke’s from across the room and as the templar approaches the door, they exchange a silent nod and Arthur takes up one of his daggers.

The door opens, hiding Hawke and Dorian behind it as the templar steps inside, hand on the hilt of his sword.

As soon as he is within reach, Hawke attacks.

He grabs the templar by the throat, his other hand slamming into his face and lighting up with electricity. The templar’s entire body seizes, his mouth open in a soundless scream as smoke starts trailing off his singed skin. When Hawke releases him, he falls over like a lifeless doll and hits the ground with a heavy thud.

“What the—”

The other templar who had been out of sight before rushes inside, spotting the corpse and then seeing Hawke standing in front of him, smirking brazenly.

“Looks like your friend here was rather _shocked_ to see me,” Hawke says, the tips of his fingers sparking with purple electricity.  

Arthur suppresses his groan. Dorian doesn’t.

“You bastard, you’ll pay for that!” the templar howls, yanking his sword out of its sheath but before he can so much as set a single step in Hawke’s direction Arthur has already slipped behind him, unseen.

He grabs hold of the templar by his helmet, and before the templar can struggle he swipes the edge of his dagger across the man’s throat in a single, fluid motion.

The templar clutches at his neck as he falls over next to his comrade, blood gushing out of his wound and staining the wooden floorboards as he chokes and gurgles, twitching for a while before he finally falls still.

Arthur wipes his blade clean on one of the curtains framing the windows before he hooks it back on his belt, peeking outside the doorway to make sure there weren’t any others.

“What now?” Dorian asks, staring down at the two corpses with distaste. “They’ll come looking for their friends.”

“We get as far away from here as possible,” Arthur says. “How long do you need on the amulet?”

“An hour.”

Arthur arches his brows. “Really?”

“Reversing the amulet’s magic is easy,” Dorian says. “Having you use your mark on it and pray that it sends us back to our own world, instead of another one? That’s entirely out of my control.”

“Is there any way you can direct it?” Hawke wonders.

Dorian hums, then blinks as something dawns on him as he looks at Arthur. “You always wake up in the dungeons of Haven after you die?”

“Yes,” Arthur confirms, not sure where Dorian is going with this. “I suppose I _could_ kill myself to get out of this one—”

“Maker, no!” Dorian exclaims, horrified. “That’s not what I meant!”

“…Oh.”

“You weren’t actually considering that, were you?” Hawke asks cautiously.

Arthur averts his gaze. “I’d rather not start all over again if I can help it.”

That doesn’t quite answer Hawke’s question, which Hawke seems to notice but Dorian interjects before they can get into even more gloomy territory.

“What I _meant_ ,” Dorian emphasizes pointedly to Arthur, “is that your time loop and the amulet’s botched spell operate on the same principles. Both need to be anchored to a certain point in time and space in order to have a place to send us to.”

“The dungeons in Haven and Redcliffe castle,” Arthur states, finally understanding. “But if use the amulet and send us back to Redcliffe, does that mean the loop will just start over again?”

“That’s- impossible to say,” Dorian says, sounding pained to admit it. “I’m able to adjust the anchor point of the amulet to send us to the right place, but I have no way of knowing if it will send us back to the right time. The loop might start over again, or it might not.”

“I’d rather take a chance than stick around, personally,” Hawke chimes in, but then notices the troubled look on Arthur’s face. “You’re worried you’ll have to start over again, aren’t you?”

The answer to that question is an obvious one, but there’s something else Hawke is searching for.

“There’s no saving this world, but…” Arthur trails off, the words heavy on his tongue.

“But?”

“I—” Arthur swallows thickly. “I don’t want you to forget me again.”

He can’t bear to look at Hawke’s face, but he sees Hawke’s hand reaching out to his own, and when Hawke replies his voice is unbearably soft.

“Arthur—”

His fingers barely brush against Arthur’s when a sudden shout in the distance interrupts.

“Hey, who’s over there?”

Hawke jerks his hand back as they all move away from the door, Arthur peering around the corner and spotting a group of six templars heading their way from the open road, far enough away that they probably can’t quite make out the corpses lying on the floor inside the cottage. Not to mention the veil of snow falling down impeding everyone’s vision.

The only reason Arthur can tell that it’s templars is the red lyrium growing out of their armor that glows even from this distance, like spots of heat among the snow.

“We need to leave,” Arthur says curtly, the vulnerability that he let slip through reeled back inside as he lets the familiar blank mask settle over his features. “With their armor and lyrium weighing them down, we can outrun them and lose them in the forest. Let’s go.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, trusting that Dorian and Hawke will follow him as he leaves the cottage and circles around back where the wide open valley transitions into the thick, wintry woods Arthur remembers stumbling through several times after Haven’s destructions in previous lifetimes.

“After them!” he hears one of the templars shout, seconds later a red shard flying past is ear and missing his head by inches.

“Watch out for—”

Before Arthur can finish speaking he hears the sound of roaring flames, feels the heat on his back and when he glances behind him he sees Dorian effortlessly conjuring a wall of flame to block the templars’ path.

“That should slow them down,” Dorian says smugly as he watches the templars all but stop in their tracks at the sudden obstacle.

“Nice spell,” Hawke comments, impressed before he grabs Dorian by the shoulder and pulls him along. “Now let’s move!”

If nothing else it has bought them time. The three of them flee into the safety of the trees, sheltering them from sight as they zigzag through the forest, Hawke and Dorian periodically throwing snow across their tracks with magic to cover them up.

Arthur doesn’t stop running until his lungs start to burn in his chest, and by that point they have crossed so deep into the forest he couldn’t possibly say where they were in relation to Haven. Usually becoming lost in these mountains without any supplies would be a death sentence, but seeing as how they’re going to teleport their way out using magic it hardly matters. They’ll just have to bear with the cold while Dorian figures out how to work the amulet.

Hawke and Dorian are both beside him, and they all take a moment to catch their breath. With the shelter of the pine trees surrounding them only the smallest snowflakes slip through the branches and float down below, the harsh icy winds of the valley dimmed into a cold but tolerable breeze.

It’s oddly quiet here, almost peaceful. Arthur could nearly forget about the sight of blood and smoke he saw upon waking in this lost world, though it makes him wonder how long it has been since Corypheus first attacked Haven.

It can’t have been very long; fires were still burning when they woke up in front of the gates.

“We should find some shelter,” Hawke says. “Or somewhere to sit down so Dorian can work on the amulet.”

Arthur nods, looking around and noticing the snow here is thinner than it was back at the cottage. “Maybe further ahead.”

They start walking in silence, Arthur taking the lead initially but unsurprised when Hawke starts walking next to him, Dorian lingering a few steps behind them with the amulet in his hand, preoccupied with studying it.

It gives them a bit of privacy, which makes Arthur tense in anticipation and dread both. He doesn’t like speaking about the past, about what he’s been through.

But he knows Hawke will ask, and Hawke does.

“With everything that’s happened…” Hawke hesitates, something unlike him to do, and seems to search for words. “How are you dealing with it?”

Arthur almost laughs. “Poorly.”

“I can see that.”

Hawke’s blunt response makes Arthur wince.

“This really isn’t the time.”

“No, this is the perfect time.” Hawke is staring at him, Arthur can sense it, but he keeps his own eyes aimed firmly to the ground. “Being back here can’t be easy.”

“I don’t—” Arthur takes a breath. “I _can’t_ talk about it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Every time I died,” Arthur elaborates reluctantly, “I woke up back in Haven as if nothing happened. Cassandra would lead me out of the dungeons and I would see everyone again, meet all my friends again, each of them alive and unharmed. It makes it easier to pretend like it’s all been a bad dream. Talking about it… it makes it real.”

Another silence falls in their conversation as they tread through the snow, feeling weighted between them. Arthur tries to distract himself by keeping an eye on their environment—sure enough he spots what looks like a well-worn road a short distance away in between the trees.

“I don’t want to forget you.”

Arthur’s heart nearly stops, an awkward stutter in his movements as he almost misses a step and corrects himself only due to his quick reflexes.

He wonders if he misheard because when he looks over Hawke appears impassive at first glance as he stares out toward the road ahead of them. It might have been his imagination.

But then Hawke continues to speak.

“I'm not fond of making promises,” he says and Arthur can now make out the furrow in his brows, drawn subtly together. Hawke’s eyes meet his and there’s a hint of a smile on his lips. "But I have a feeling… no matter what happens, I won't forget you, Arthur." 

He makes it sound so easy and he looks so sure of himself, but as much as Arthur wants to believe, wants to hope, wants to put his faith in someone else for the first time in years, he has been burned too many times to take that leap.

It must have shown on his face, because Hawke then does something else. He reaches down for his belt and pulls out a short, unremarkable knife, flipping it over and grabbing it by the blade to offer the handle to Arthur.

Arthur stares at it, confused.

“You’re giving me a knife?”

“I’m giving you a dagger,” Hawke corrects, a playful curl to his mouth and Arthur is reminded of their first meeting in this life, when he pulled a dagger on Hawke. "Consider it a wager; so long as you have it, I'll remember you." 

Arthur smiles slightly, the heavy weight in his chest lightening with fondness. Even back then, Hawke cheered him up so easily that Arthur completely forgot about his nightmares. He does it so effortlessly that Arthur has to wonder how he manages it. Maybe it's just the way Hawke is by nature, like the embodiment of a fireplace drawing people to him for a bit of his warmth—and Arthur has been wandering out in the cold for far too long. 

“Looks rather small for a dagger,” Arthur quips, returning the words Hawke uttered to him during their first meeting.

Hawke grins, pleased as Arthur takes the knife from him. “It’s one of a kind.”

Arthur takes the time to inspect it more closely, looking over the simple black handle and the strange blue sheen to the metal of it. He then notices something carved into the blade.

“The letter B?”

“Bethany,” Hawke says. “My sister’s. She found it on the body of a bandit who tried to ambush us back in Kirkwall. Tried to enchant it once and set uncle Gamlen’s desk on fire; I think the thing is immune to magic.”

Arthur’s eyes go wide. “Hawke, I can’t take this.”

“Yes, you can.” Hawke flashes him a smile. “Just hold onto it for me?”

Arthur tries to hold the knife out to Hawke. “I don’t deserve—”

“It’s not about deserving.” Hawke covers the hand Arthur holds the knife in with his own, and pushes it back, skin cool from the cold air and his palm rough. “Think of it as doing me a favor.”

Arthur really shouldn’t, but Hawke doesn’t seem as if he’ll be talked into taking it back. Pensive, Arthur brushes his thumb idly over the ‘B’ carved into the blade. Immune to magic. He wonders if that includes the magic from the Anchor.

“Thank you, Garrett.” Arthur attaches the knife to his belt. The weight of it is small, but comfortingly present at his waist. “I’ll take good care of it, until I can return it to you again.”

The left corner of Garrett’s mouth quirks up into a knowing smile. He likely doesn’t intend for Arthur to try to give it back to him, but he can’t stop Arthur from doing so either.

“You’re as stubborn as a mule, you know that?”

Arthur is on the verge of responding when a sudden movement in between the trees catches his eye.

He halts in his tracks and holds out an arm in front of Garrett, who runs into it before he notices the figures in the distance and comes to an abrupt stop beside Arthur.

Dorian bumps into Garrett’s back and nearly drops the amulet.

“Why are you—”

Arthur grabs the sleeve of Dorian’s robe and pulls him down with him and Garrett into a crouch, at which point Dorian gets the hint and follows their lead. They carefully take cover among some of the trees near the road, giving them a decent view of the group travelling out of the Frostback Mountains.

Red templars; they stick out like a sore thumb. With Haven destroyed there’s no more reason for them to linger in Haven, so this group must be part of the larger army marching back to wherever Corypheus is taking them next. There aren't many of them. Giving the whole group a quick look-over, Arthur estimates maybe a little over 30 or so soldiers.

They should lay low until this particular unit has moved on. Arthur is about to whisper as much to his two companions, when he realizes there are more people present aside from the templars.

In fact, it seems as if the templars are escorting… prisoners? 

Chains and shackles, binding one person to the next as they drag themselves through the snow. There are maybe a dozen of them, clothes torn and tattered, some of them even bloodied. A cart passes by Arthur’s hiding spot, holding an iron cage just large enough to imprison a single person separated from the other prisoners.

Arthur’s blood freezes in its veins when he recognizes the short black hair, the familiar symbol of an eye engraved into her chest plate, her head held high and her back straight. Her name leaves his mouth in a heartbroken whisper.

“ _Cassandra_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did consider tagging the story with Multiverse and Dimension Travel at first, buuuut... that would have spoiled the whole thing! not that this is that much of a plot twist, it's just a more detailed explanation for what's up with this time looping thing, but yeah there you have it


	9. psyche and spirit

If one were to ask knight-lieutenant Leland how he became a red templar, he wouldn’t know how to answer.

Likely he would not even understand the question. He is past the point of mere degradation; his every thought is dedicated to acquiring more of the same blood-soaked lyrium that poisoned him in the first place. There is no room for anything else within Leland’s mind.

So when his commanding officer ordered him to guard the caged woman atop one of the wagons heading back to base, Leland did so without question, knowing he would be rewarded later by having his cravings sated.

Ever since his tongue tasted his first drop of red lyrium, Leland has been unable to feel anything but the insatiable hunger eating his body from the inside out.

Not the bite of icy winds, not the pain of his wounds, not any pity for his prisoners, not any doubts about what he’s doing—Leland feels _nothing_.

Until the smoke comes.

Leland walks beside the wagon carrying the cage that imprisons the woman his superior ordered him to guard, and is the only one to witness it as it happens.

He sees something small thrown from between the trees on his left, flying through the air in a tall arch and landing amid the row of red templars at the very front. The moment it disappears into the crowd, black smoke explodes outward and the march comes to an abrupt stop before descending into chaos.

Leland can’t see past the smoke obscuring nearly everyone walking in front of him, but he can hear the shouting. It’s a dark veil that swallows everything near it, the pale green light emanating from the Breach casting even darker shadows moving around within the cloud, but at this distance Leland cannot tell friend from foe.

Of course, their prisoners have also taken notice. The woman in the cage leans forward and grasps at the iron bars, her gaze fixated on the smoke and the silhouettes flitting in and out of sight. The other prisoners walking behind Leland start to lift their heads, eyes darting here and there, perhaps looking for a chance to escape.

“We’re under attack!” Leland hears his superior yell from the other side of the wagon, hidden from view by the giant cage. “Guard the— _NO_!”

His superior’s words cut off into a scream, but when Leland runs around the wagon to look, he finds nothing but chaotic tracks and a dark stain of blood left in the snow.  

Ahead of him a templar falls out of the smoke and collapses onto the ground with his throat slit wide open, blood rolling down the steel of his chest plate and dyeing the symbolic sword engraved on it in red.

The smoke now falls silent, and his superior is gone.

Leland’s thoughts being addled by the constant craving for lyrium, he cannot move on his own or lead the templars that are left, who have surrounded the prisoners and are trying to keep a revolt from breaking out. He needs directions, orders to act on.

Something small drops out of the air and hits the ground before his feet—smoke.

For the first time in months, Leland feels something beside the hunger.

 _Fear_.

* * *

It’s a one-sided massacre.

Garrett watches from behind the safety of the trees, hidden from sight together with Dorian. At first there isn’t much to watch; they can’t see anything because of the smoke, slowly spreading up and down the path as it announces Arthur’s arrival. Even the screaming is sparse, moments of an eerie quiet in between the attacks before someone else cries out in horror.

When Arthur said he would handle the templars Dorian was the first to voice his skepticism, but to his shame Garrett has to admit he was also doubtful of Arthur’s plan. One exhausted man take on dozens of heavily armed soldiers by himself?

But then the smoke clears to reveal the corpses left in Arthur’s wake.

“How on earth did he… where is he?” Dorian’s eyes search the path. “Did you see him at all?”

Garrett shakes his head, feeling like a fool. “Not a glimpse.”

He’s not a rogue, but he has spent years fighting alongside Varric and Isabela. They each employed their stealth in their own ways—in fact, the first time Garrett saw Arthur fight was against a demon, and his moves then reminded him a lot of Isabela’s.

Much like her, Arthur is a duelist by nature; drawing out a single opponent and striking with precision and finesse, targeting weak spots, waiting for an opening while skillfully evading any attacks before going in for the kill. Garrett assumed that was the extent of Arthur’s arsenal, but he was so very, very wrong. It’s clear to him now.

Arthur is not just a duelist, he’s an assassin.

The observation should not be as arousing as it is. Then again, neither should the memory of Arthur holding a dagger to his neck, which is still fresh in his mind. Garrett is starting to wonder whether this is just because it's Arthur specifically, or because Garrett is starting to develop an extremely dangerous fetish as a result of all the shit he's been through in the past decade. Maybe both?

Well, he never claimed to be a well-adjusted person. 

That aside, in hindsight Arthur's true skill is obvious. Garrett has only ever seen him fight demons that spawned from Fade rifts, and assassination techniques wouldn’t work well on the likes of them. But human opponents, when Arthur has had _years_ to practice thanks to all those time loops?

They don’t stand a chance.

With the red templars lying dead on the ground, the prisoners waste no time using wayward swords and knives to cut themselves free of the ropes tying them all together. Inside her cage, Cassandra shouts for someone to find the keys and release her.

“I can’t find him,” Dorian mutters to Garrett, still looking for Arthur as he cautiously peers around the corner of the large tree he’s hiding behind. “Do you think he’s—”

“I’m right here.”

Dorian visibly jumps while Garrett’s hand instinctively reaches for his staff, halting the motion halfway through when his eyes settle on Arthur crouching behind some bushes next to them.

“You didn’t need to sneak up on us!” Dorian hisses, flustered by his sudden appearance, but Arthur’s gaze is fixated on Cassandra.

“We have to leave,” Garrett says and Arthur glances at him, a flinch in the corner of his mouth before he pulls his lips into a firm line and looks back toward the freed prisoners as they release Cassandra from her cage.

“I know,” Arthur says, the wintery hues of blue in his eyes darkened in the shade of the trees as he pulls away, Garrett and Dorian quietly following. “It’s only- I failed her before. Leaving again doesn’t feel right.”

“Arthur, you’re just one man.” Garrett looks at the dim glow of the Anchor on his palm as they try to put some distance between them and the freed prisoners. “A man with a magical hand, sure, but you’re not the Maker. You’re not responsible for the downfall of an entire world.”

For a moment Arthur looks pained, gaze aimed to the ground. “But if I hadn’t told them the truth and made them think I was crazy, none of this would’ve happened. If I had just kept my mouth shut…”

“And if they had _listened_ to you like Solas did,” Dorian interjects, “then this wouldn’t have happened either. If someone had caught Corypheus before he had blown up the Conclave, or—”

“If I had not fallen into his trap,” Garrett says, and both Dorian and Arthur stare at him then. “If I had not let Corypheus go, you would’ve never had to deal with any of this.”

Arthur frowns deeply. “You couldn’t have known, it wasn’t your fault.”

“So you can absolve me, but not yourself?”

Something rustles in the bushes nearby, causing all three of them to halt in a tense silence until a rabbit bursts through from the leaves and sprints across their path, disappearing back into the forest.

Dorian breathes an audible sigh as the group takes a brief pause in the small open clearing.

“The way I see it, Corypheus is the only one to blame for this mess,” he states with a pointed look to Arthur. “And no one else.” 

“Agreed,” Garrett adds.

Glancing from one to the other, Arthur seems to realize he’s outnumbered and his shoulders slump slightly in resignation. Still, Garrett doubts he will be convinced so easily; the guilt within Arthur has burrowed its roots deep. A single conversation won’t solve that.

“Regardless of who’s at fault,” Arthur says tiredly, “I don’t belong here anymore. We need to get back to our world as soon as possible.”

“About that.” Dorian pulls out the amulet he had hidden in a pocket of his robes, flickering with a soft green light like a candle on the verge of blowing out. “I finished tweaking the spell right before we ran into the red templars." 

"So we can go home now?" Garrett asks, eyeing the amulet with some wariness.

“There's no guarantee it will work.” Dorian is blunt, but the furrow between his brows betrays his worry. “But we don't have any other options. At best, it’ll be extremely unpleasant for the Herald but get us where we need to be. At worst…”

“At worst?”

Dorian smiles weakly. “We’ll be erased from time and space. No pressure!”

“I’ll do it,” Arthur says without hesitation, eyes fixated on the amulet in Dorian’s hand as he holds out his own, palm open in expectation.

“I’ve done stupider things,” Garrett decides, his tone casual even as a cold sweat builds at the back of his neck because he’s not sure that he _has_ done stupider things. “Sure, give it a shot.”

Dorian reaches over and grabs Arthur’s left arm, Garrett following suit and winding his fingers around the back of Arthur’s right elbow.

“Don’t force it,” Dorian says, dangling the twinkling amulet above Arthur’s exposed mark that gives a spark of green magic, as if it can sense the amulet close. “Don’t fight it. Just let the amulet drain as much as it needs, nothing more and nothing less.”

“I’m ready.”

Dorian drops the amulet onto Arthur’s palm.

* * *

The pad of Arcelia’s finger traces lightly around the rim of her porcelain cup, the soft steam from the freshly made tea warming her skin as she eyes the letter Josephine just handed her from across the war room table, the ink scrawled across its parchment as if it was written with haste.

> **Dear Lady Montilyet:**
> 
> **It is true. Distant relations of the House Trevelyan are claiming close friendship with the Herald of Andraste. A boast is one matter, but the boundaries of tact and decency appear to be invisible to these mountebanks.**
> 
> **During a ball in the south quarter, I witnessed a cousin five times remove from Lord Arthur threaten to have the Inquisition assassinate his rival! He quickly left the party after I made my connection with the Inquisition clear, but the problem stands. We must deal with the Herald’s relatives taking his name in vain.**
> 
> **Perhaps Lady Arcelia might offer some direction? I would not suggest her usual methods, but she wields a significant amount of influence in the Free Marches. Perhaps it would be wisest to allow her free reign in this matter.**
> 
> **Lady Buttlefort**

Arcelia lowers the letter back onto the table, instead raising her cup to her lips and taking a small sip of her chamomile tea. The soft herbal scent mixes with the stale air of the war room, packed with cold dust occasionally swirling through the rays of sunlight that warm the rich almond tones of Arcelia’s skin.  

Finally, she turns to look at her brother’s advisers standing across from her. “Thoughts?”

Considering the letter was addressed to her, Jospehine speaks first. “Situations such as these are inevitable once someone from a noble house comes into renown; perhaps promising future favors would make your relations become more cautious?”

Arcelia thinks on it briefly as she twirls a small lock of her black hair that escaped her bun around the tip of her finger before tucking it behind her ear.

“Perhaps that might work among the nobility of Orlais,” she muses, “but prudence is not a trait most Free Marchers possess. I’m afraid we’ll just get caught up in pointless arguments and used as a tool for some nobleman’s frail ego.”

“You may be right,” Josephine concedes. “I am not as familiar with the… Free Marchers scene as I would like to be.”

Arcelia moves on. “What do you think, Leliana?”

The spymaster folds her hands behind her back. “There are ways to indicate our displeasure without tipping our hand.”

“Such as?”

“I’m not suggesting we send assassins,” Leliana says, “but the _rumor_ of assassins…”

“That might work,” Arcelia considers. “Or it might inflame my relatives into retaliation. What about you, Cullen?”

“Denounce them and be done with it.”

The corners of Arcelia’s mouth quirk up—she notices Cullen staring at her from across the table, but pretends not to see it. Some might call him crass, but to Arcelia who has lived and breathed in masks ever since she was a child, his bluntness is delightful.

“A far too sensible solution to a very silly problem,” Arcelia states. “They won’t take kindly to being openly embarrassed.”

“What would you suggest, my lady?” Josephine asks, drawing Arcelia’s attention back to the matter at hand.

She wonders what advice Arthur would have taken had he been here. Likely he would have listened to her either way, as he trusted her to work closely with his advisers.

“Depending on who the instigators are, I could solve this by writing a few letters to the right people,” Arcelia says, pondering the matter leisurely as she takes another sip of her tea. “But that would waste both time and effort my relatives clearly do not deserve.

“Let’s spread some rumors instead.” Arcelia’s smile is slight but sharp, a twinkle in her green eyes. “Only, not of assassins.”

“What did you have in mind?” Leliana inquires curiously.

“Let them know I’m listening.” Arcelia lowers her cup back down onto the table. “Make them think I’m prepared to march down to the Free Marches myself to sort this out if I have to. That should be enough to pacify them; _several_ of those distant relatives owe me favors.”

“Subtle but threatening.” Leliana seems pleased. “A wise approach.”

“I would not want to waste my brother’s time on this nonsense,” Arcelia says. “He has enough to worry about as it is without getting dragged into the petty disputes of a third-rate lordling in some backwater city-state.”

Josephine snorts loudly, hiding it behind her fist and quickly clearing her throat. “As you say, my lady.”

“It would be best not to let Chancellor Roderick know about any of this,” Leliana says to Josephine. “He has been snooping around your office several times.”

“Truly?” Josephine frowns, taken aback.

“He’s starting to cross a line,” Cullen grumbles, crossing his arms. “The downsides of keeping him around are starting to outweigh the benefits.”

“Perhaps you should invite him in on these meetings every once in a while?” Arcelia suggests, and all three advisers turn to her as if she’d just denounced the Maker and Andraste both in a single breath. “I’m not saying to show him anything substantial, but having him here will allow you to feed him whatever information you want while also giving him a sense of importance.”

Leliana tilts her head slightly. “That might actually work… we could make him useful for the Inquisition.”

“It would also benefit relations with the Chantry,” Josephine points out. “Chancellor Roderick’s main complaint _has_ been that he doesn’t see any purpose to the Inquisition. Inviting him might eventually sway him into our favor, and he would be a powerful ally to have.”

Cullen does not look happy with the idea, however. “Or it would just empower him.”

“I know how men like Roderick think, Commander,” Arcelia assures him. “But it was only a suggestion, and I imagine you would want to ask Cassandra and my brother for their opinions before deciding on anything.”

“They should be returning in a few days’ time,” Josephine says. “That is, if everything has gone according to plan. Have we heard from them yet?”

The question is directed at Leliana, whose expression is carefully neutral. “Not yet, the Herald was supposed to meet the Magister several hours ago so I imagine a report from one of my agents will be here at any moment. Either way, I believe we have addressed the most pressing issues for now.”

“In that case I should get back to work,” Cullen decides, circling around the table as if restless—standing around and debating obviously isn’t his favored activity, though it has been asked of him often lately. “You know where to find me if something comes up.”

He does not bother saying anything more to Leliana or Josephine as he heads for the exit, so the contrast doesn’t escape Arcelia’s notice when Cullen looks at her in particular as he passes her, inclining his head with an almost shy, “My lady.”

Arcelia watches him leave with a smile playing on her lips she doesn’t even notice is there until Josephine coughs politely.

“I did have a few matters I was hoping to get your perspective on,” Josephine says. “If you have the time to spare, of course.”

Arcelia turns her attention to Josephine with a coquettish flutter of her eyelashes. “I always have time for you, my dear ambassador.”

“Oh, well,” Josephine struggles briefly as she’s flustered. “It- it is hardly urgent—”

Leliana shakes her head with a note of amusement and exasperation. “If you are quite done teasing poor Josephine, I do believe I have something of my own to discuss, and mine does qualify as urgent.”

When Arcelia arches her brows, the spymaster elucidates, “It is not pressing enough to inform the others, but I am starting to grow… suspicious.”

“Is this about the scouts you sent to Bann Loren’s lands?” Josephine asks.

“Yes, the ones I sent to find the missing Seekers.” Leliana’s eyes narrow slightly as she stares down at the table, lending a grimness to her face that looks entirely too foreboding. “As you know, your brother attested to hearing rumors of the missing Seekers near Caer Oswin a while ago. I sent no more than two agents to investigate as I was doubtful at first, but only one of them returned. Their partner apparently disappeared after approaching the castle.”

“Are you asking me to head to Caer Oswin to find out what happened, by myself?” Arcelia infers, curious to hear the reasoning behind such a bold request.

Leliana smiles wryly, able to read the test in Arcelia’s tone. “Are you not the same woman who infiltrated the most heavily guarded Chantry in Tantervale to assassinate a Revered Mother, or was I misinformed?”

“Oh, the Tantervale request!” Arcelia sighs fondly at the memory of rushing adrenaline and a racing heartbeat. “That was quite the challenge, especially since it turned out to be a trap.”

Josephine looks and is speechless.

“I am not asking you to take care of the problem by yourself,” Leliana says with emphasis. “Only to give me a picture of what’s going on, possibly to find out where my missing agent went before we take any definitive measures. It sounds like a ruse, but so was your Tantervale job, and with your experience you would fare far better than my spies.”

With so little to go on, this would certainly be a far riskier venture than Tantervale. Arcelia feels a tingling in the pit of her belly at the thought and a smile spreads wide on her face.

“Consider it done!”

* * *

The amulet falls onto the mark on Arthur’s palm, but instead of the pain and the explosion he expects, only darkness follows.

It’s as if a veil is pulled over his eyes. The weight of Dorian and Garrett’s hands falls away, their figures on either side of him devoured by the shadows that flood Arthur’s vision in a single wave.

He looks around, but he can’t see anything past his own body, illuminated by the bright light of his mark, making his hand feel hot but not unpleasantly so. The amulet is quiet as well.

“Hawke?” Arthur calls. “Dorian?”

He listens to his voice echo against invisible walls before it’s swallowed up into the void surrounding him. It’s not quite the absence of light, but rather the obscuring of it. The dread inside his chest starts to swell as his eyes dart around to catch any sign of light beyond the eerie glow of his mark, but he finds nothing.

In hindsight it’s obvious this wouldn’t work out the way they wanted it to; the first time Arthur touched the amulet and sent them careening into another dimension was by sheer chance after all.

But if he were erased from time, as Dorian suggested might happen should something go wrong, then Arthur wouldn’t currently exist, would he? He wouldn’t be able to perceive or think anything, wouldn’t have any awareness.

So, if he has not been erased from time, where is he? Even though he’s certain he has never seen this place before, it all feels incredibly familiar in a frightening sort of way.

Arthur turns around in a full circle one last time, just to make sure he didn’t miss something when he spots a dot of white in the distance.

Letting out a breath of relief, Arthur breaks out into a sprint, fueled by the fear that if he waits too long the oppressive darkness around him might just consume it before he can get to it.

His feet pound against solid ground without a defined shape and he can almost feel it bend a little beneath him. It makes no noise no matter how hard he runs, there’s no wind in his hair, and the only sounds he hears are his own steady breaths and his racing heartbeat, the blood rushing in his ears growing louder and louder in the silence.

The dot of white gradually grows bigger, but the closer Arthur gets the more it seems like a solid object rather than the guiding light he was hoping for.

It’s something small left on the ground, red streaked across its body.

Arthur’s heart stops when he realizes what it is.

A white rabbit, lying dead.

“What—”

Suddenly he finds himself several feet shorter than he should be, the abrupt shift in perspective so jarring Arthur sways a bit and looks down at his body—a _child’s_ body.

There’s the rustling of leaves and the familiar song of a vesper in the distance, the quiet flow of a river’s creak that Arthur would recognize anywhere even though everything around him stays dark: his childhood home.

For a moment his vision bursts with colors and sounds that were once hazy remnants of a faraway memory, now come to life. The sunlight filtering through the green leaves and almost making them appear translucent, cool grass smattered with purple hyacinths and multi-colored tulips swaying in a gentle breeze, the glimpses of his house he would catch from among the trees as he played in the forest.

Dirt paths, rustling bushes, a flash of white fur, the sound of a hunter's trap snapping shut, and finally the feeling of hot tears rolling down his cheeks.

He hears Arcelia’s voice in his ear, feels her hands on his shoulders.

“ _Some things must die in order for others to live.”_

He remembers the first time he saw the rabbit and how he couldn’t stop himself from crying. Regulus tried to comfort him then, but Arcelia knelt down in front of him, held him by the shoulders and looked him in the eye as she told him about sacrifice, about necessity.

And he’d cried for the rabbit, but maybe part of him also mourned himself that day.

Thinking back on it now, Arthur almost wants to laugh; how prophetic had it been? It seemed his entire life built up to it, to his becoming something more than what he was. The moment he took up the ceremonial sword and pledged himself to the crowds at Skyhold as their Inquisitor, he knew he would be forever changed for it.

Arthur blinks and the rabbit is gone, replaced by his own adult body lying dead in a pool of his own blood, and he _finally_ understands.

Part of him died that day, too, but he never had a chance to mourn it.

A sacrifice he refused to make, a destiny he never accepted.

“Well, well,” he hears, a voice so foreign and yet familiar that it makes his mind ache as it drowns out the silence. “What have we here?”

He twists and turns—his vision sways as he’s abruptly returned to his original form—and his gaze searches the darkness until his eyes finally find her standing just a few feet away from him, shadows pooling around her oddly as if they can’t quite touch her, like liquid water suspended in air.

An old woman, and a dead goddess.

“You,” Arthur breathes, relief flickering inside his chest; if she’s here, then there must be a way out. But then doubt enters his mind.

 _Is_ she here? Where is “here”, anyway?

Flemeth herself looks the same. Her yellow eyes glitter sharp as if they were cracked out of gemstones. Her perfect white hair is bound into horns behind her head, held together by a crown of metal. The dark leather and gray feathers of her armor are exactly as Arthur remembers them.

“Me,” she says with a smile, eyeing amused at first glance but her gaze is curious, expectant almost.

“How are you here?” Arthur asks, managing to keep his head on straight instead of immediately jumping for a way to escape without understanding the situation. “And- where _is_ here?”

“A world in between,” Flemeth speaks, looking around as if there are things in the dark only she can see. It’s not a comforting thought. “In a time that does not exist.”

Arthur shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”

“You should.” Flemeth casts him a knowing look with the slightest tilt of her head. “It is of your own doing.”

“I did this?” Arthur repeats incredulously. “To _myself_?”

“Fate can be unkind,” Flemeth muses, slowly pacing around the dark, her heels making no sound. “At times it will offer comfort, but only within cruelty.”

Arthur shakes his head, having no patience for any cryptic comments when he’s apparently stuck in some sort of alternate dimension, likely a limbo of sorts. “That doesn’t tell me anything.”

For some reason, this makes Flemeth laugh.

“Of course it doesn’t when you’re asking the wrong question!” she says. “Fate is not the cause, it is the consequence.”

“Then…” Arthur swallows thickly as he slowly starts to understand what she’s getting at. “Why would I do this to myself?”

Flemeth’s eyes gleam in the dark. “Why, indeed?”

Still, that doesn’t provide him with much more insight either.

He glances down at the Anchor, its green light ever-present. Dagna once called it both a lock and a key. An idea begins to grow and the Anchor flares almost immediately, its magic making his hand tremble, boring up through his arm like tiny needles through his veins. The pain, at least, is familiar.

“Comfort within cruelty,” Arthur wonders out loud, for some reason those particular words stuck inside his head as he looks back up at Flemeth. “What did you mean by that?”

Flemeth gives him an assessing look. “Do you believe yourself to be powerless?”

A confrontational question if he’s ever heard one. Yet it compels him to look back down at the mark on his palm. It almost killed him, is slowly killing him, yet proved to be the—

 _“The key to our salvation_ ,” Solas told him.

A key and a lock.

“I don’t think—”

Flemeth isn’t there when he looks back up, leaving Arthur to wonder if she was ever there at all. Maybe she was just another hallucination, a figment brought to life by this place. The unsettling thought lingers a moment before he pushes it aside and concentrates on the Anchor.

If he got himself in this mess, then he’s going to get himself out.

“Can you?”

At first Arthur startles at the sound of Dorian’s voice, then relaxes at its familiarity, and then tenses as he looks up and sees him because Dorian looks far older than he should, and that all but confirms that this isn’t real, wherever this is.

Dorian’s hair is longer, streaks of grey through the black, wrinkles in his face putting him somewhere in his fifties, maybe. His clothes are different as well, dark and sharply-cut robes Arthur can barely make out against the backdrop of shadows everywhere, but they are unquestionably of Tevinter fashion. There is a crown on his head, gleaming gold.

Save for the crown, it all looks uncharacteristically muted. The Dorian Arthur knows is far flashier than the version he sees in front of him, far warmer than the cold, almost lifeless reflection taunting him.

Maybe this is who Dorian would have become, _could_ have become, had his father succeeded with the blood magic ritual. Had Dorian not run away.

“Can you get out?” Dorian asks, his voice deeper, rougher than what Arthur is used to. “Do you want to get out?”

“Of course I want to get out,” Arthur replies, though he knows there’s no point in debating. “I need to go back.”

“Why?”

Arthur stares in bemusement at this Dorian. Why? What a bizarre question.

“Because I need to close the Breach,” Arthur states. “Because I need to defeat Corypheus and find a way to escape this time loop—”

‘Dorian’ tilts his head in a strange way that at once makes him look like a creature merely wearing Dorian’s face, even the superficial resemblance distorting his features into something alien and unfamiliar. “But you don’t _want_ to.”

 Arthur freezes, stomach rolling with nausea.

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” Arthur bites back. “I have to go back!”

‘Dorian’ starts languidly pacing through the dark, hands folded behind his back. “Or you could run away.”

A bitter laugh escapes Arthur’s mouth. “To where?”

“You have the Anchor.”

Arthur glances down at his hand.

An impossible notion starts to form in his head. Yes, he could run away, couldn’t he? With the Anchor’s power and the amulet’s spell, he could leave all this behind and flee to another world, to another reality.

“No.” Arthur shakes his head. ‘Dorian’ is gone when he looks up, much like Flemeth, but Arthur continues to speak into the darkness. “No, I won’t abandon them again.”

He hears a laugh echo before another form steps into view and Arthur’s stomach sinks.

Garrett.

“You already abandoned them,” Garrett sneers, tone cruel in a way Arthur has never heard before. “One more time won’t make a difference, they’re all going to die anyway.”

These visions are starting to grow progressively further and further away from the people they’re supposed to mimic. ‘Flemeth’ had been so real that Arthur almost believed she was there in the flesh, but then again, Arthur knows almost nothing about Flemeth, or Mythal. ‘Dorian’ on the other hand, who Arthur knows inside and out, was completely twisted. Corrupted, almost.

And this ‘Garrett’—

He’s the same age and wearing the same armor, but there’s an eerie look in his eyes that puts Arthur on edge. The iconic crimson streak across his nose is bleeding down his battered and bruised face, down his split lips, and the metal of his gauntlets and greaves are similarly dripping blood all over the ground with every single step as he slowly walks toward Arthur.

When ‘Garrett’ curls his lip up in a cold smile, Arthur can even see his bloodied teeth—his gaze is fixated on Arthur the way the others weren’t, and it _craves_.

A foreboding shiver runs down Arthur’s spine and he takes a step back as ‘Garrett’ closes in on him, but when he tries to take another step away his shoulders hit a wall behind him.

“Are you scared?” ‘Garrett’ asks softly, drawing ever closer until there’s only three feet between them, then laughs coldly when Arthur reaches for his daggers but finds them gone. “There’s no need to be. Nothing you do will ever make a difference. Your struggling is pointless.”

Arthur’s legs are glued to the ground as ‘Garrett’ comes closer and closer and closer until there’s just mere inches separating them. ‘Garrett’ braces his palms on either side of Arthur’s head on the invisible wall that has Arthur backed into a corner, keeping him trapped.

“Who- _what_ are you?” Arthur asks, a tremor in his voice as ‘Garrett’ leans forward, breath hot on Arthur’s lips and brown eyes filling his vision. “Why am I here? What do you want from me?”

‘Garrett’ grins menacingly, raising his hand and Arthur feels the sharp fingertip of his gauntlet scraping down his cheek but doesn’t move a muscle, afraid of what this twisted nightmare might do.

But as he watches ‘Garrett’ glance down at his lips with hunger, Arthur can’t say whether his heart is hammering purely because he’s scared, or because he feels something else entirely.

When ‘Garrett’ moves even closer Arthur holds his breath, almost flinching when he feels a brush of lips against his ear.

“I want you to give up.”

It’s as if snapping awake from a trance—all the conflicted emotions and thoughts warring for dominance inside of him are wiped clean, replaced by a single, immutable resolve.

Garrett would never tell him to give up. Dorian would never tell him to run away.

With a force that Arthur did not even know he possessed, he shoves the fake image of his friend away from him, and the moment he does, the veil of darkness finally falls away and light explodes into his eyes.

 _“You’re too bright_ ,” Cole once told him. “ _Like counting birds against the sun_.”

He finally understands.

The brighter the light, the darker its shadows.

* * *

When Arthur wakes on a cold, stone floor and the first thing he sees is his brother’s face hovering above him, he just keeps laying there and stares at Regulus, whose relieved expression quickly turns into worry.

“Artie?” Regulus prods, his hand squeezing lightly on Arthur’s shoulder. “You alright?”

That’s a difficult question to answer. Arthur feels winded, his breaths heavy and his right hand numb and tingly while the rest of his arm is incredibly sore. He’s not even sure he could stand right now, but having his older brother here is comforting.

He hears more voices around him, silhouettes of other people moving around him, but he can’t focus and his vision is blurred so he just closes his eyes with a sigh. “Tired.”

Arthur isn’t sure what happens after that, just that he briefly feels the sensation of someone—probably Regulus—lifting him up and carrying him before he passes out.

The second time he wakes in a bed.

Cassandra is the first person he sees by his bedside, though she quickly turns to someone else in the dimly-lit room. “He’s awake.”

Seconds later Solas comes into view, briefly inspecting Arthur’s face before his eyes flit down to Arthur’s mark.

Arthur flexes his hand, and it feels strangely empty. Oh, right. He’s no longer holding the amulet.

“Herald,” Solas greets him in a soft tone which Arthur is thankful for, because he’s plagued by an enormous headache.

“Mmm.” Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, holding his forehead with his left hand, his voice rough in his throat. “Did a druffalo run me over?”

Solas smiles faintly as he hovers his palm over Arthur’s marked hand, and Arthur feels his cool magic brush against the heat from the Anchor.

“Something like that.” After a moment Solas nods to himself. “The Anchor is calm.”

“Then why does my skull feel like it’s splitting open?”

“An aftereffect of the spell you used,” Solas explains. “Expending that much energy in such a short amount of time would take a toll on anyone. The pain will pass with some rest.”

Arthur hums. “How long have I been out?”

“Half a day, it’s almost morning.” Cassandra answers, standing watch over Solas’ shoulder as if she could bodily stop another mishap of magic with her bare hands. “Your brother sat by your bedside until we had to physically drag him out of the room so he could rest. Hawke and Dorian have already explained the situation to us.”

The situation? Arthur’s eyes widen slightly, a slip of his composure. Do they know about Arthur’s secret? He doesn’t think either Garrett or Dorian would tell, but he doesn’t know Garrett as well as he would like and Dorian only just met him.

Yet neither Solas or Cassandra are acting any differently towards him, and while Solas is skilled at lying—Arthur should know—Cassandra isn’t the type.

“So you know about the alternate dimension,” Arthur states, and to his relief Cassandra nods.

“They told me about my- _other_ self. I would say it’s hard to believe, but after what we’ve seen in Redcliffe?” Cassandra sighs. “I suppose at this point anything is possible.”

Time-altering Fade rifts would count as pretty strong evidence.

Arthur grits his teeth and slowly sits up in his bed.

“I would not recommend—”

“It’s fine,” Arthur grunts, interrupting Solas as he manages to force his way through the pain, resting back against his pillow with a deep exhale. “We need to get back to Haven as soon as possible.”

“You’re hardly in any condition to ride a horse,” Cassandra notes disapprovingly.

“Then I’ll ride behind someone else,” Arthur replies, pulling his blanket off him and gently shifting his legs over the edge of his bed, sitting there for a while as he waits for the throbbing in his head to subside again before moving. “We can’t afford to waste any more time.”

Cassandra doesn’t look entirely convinced, but relents. “Alright, I’ll go inform the others.”

She and Solas leave the room, leaving Arthur by himself.

He hadn’t expected to end up stuck in his own head before even meeting the Envy demon, much less being terrorized by his own mind, but it did bring him a surprising amount of clarity and refreshed his determination to see this through.

Of course, Arthur has to wonder why his own psyche saw fit to try and sabotage him as it did, but answering that question would mean studying that dark corner of himself that terrified him—and raised some uncomfortable questions, such as _why on earth_ he conjured up _that_ particular image of Garrett.

Everything points to one thing he’s completely certain about, however: he’s fracturing, splitting apart into pieces. There’s only so much trauma one person can handle before completely losing their grip on reality, and Arthur has a terrible suspicion that his sanity is hurtling straight off a cliff with the way he’s heading. If he doesn’t find a way to escape this time loop—

The door bursts open.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty!” Dorian saunters inside and Arthur winces at the noise.

“Please keep the noise down,” Arthur requests, rubbing at an aching temple. “I have a headache.”

“Oops, sorry.”

Garrett is only a few steps behind Dorian, nonchalantly closing the door that Dorian just slammed open. “Nicely done, Dorian.”

“How was I supposed to know?”

“Solas _just_ told us.”

“Did he? I wasn’t listening.” Dorian makes a dismissive wave of his hand as he takes a seat on the chair beside Arthur’s bed that Solas occupied before, turning back to address Arthur. “Regardless, it’s good that you’re still alive.”

Arthur blanks. “I could’ve died?”

Garrett, rather than stand, casually sits down next to Arthur on the bed with a snort. Arthur tries not to be too aware of the slight distance between their shoulders and knees, but the phantom touch of lips against his ear returns at the worst possible moment and after _that_ hallucination Arthur finds it hard to look Garrett in the eye without feeling embarrassed.

“I didn’t say that,” Dorian denies in a way that clearly means Arthur definitely could’ve died. “The point is that you aren’t dead and that, my friend, is a very good thing!”

“Huzzah,” Arthur deadpans.

“You didn’t look too good when you first woke up,” Garrett says, his elbow purposefully bumping into Arthur’s arm, and Arthur has to use every bit of his self-control not to jump out of his skin at the sudden contact. “Are you feeling better now?”

“I think so.” Arthur’s fingers clench into the edge of the mattress. “Either way, we’re heading back to Haven in an hour.”

Dorian arches a single brow and Arthur can feel Garrett’s gaze burning on the side of his face, but thankfully neither of them protest.

“Now we’re on the topic,” Dorian starts, his expression nonchalant but his tone cautious. “I was thinking—”

Arthur sees the question coming and beats Dorian to the punch. “You should come with us, join the Inquisition.”

It’s only a glimpse, but Arthur still catches the flicker of relief on Dorian’s face before he breaks out into a smirk. “I suppose that’s what I chose in all your past lifetimes too.”

“Of course,” Arthur says, the slight smile on his face sincere. “You always wanted to do the right thing.”

“Not exactly a high bar to reach,” Dorian replies self-deprecatingly. “I do feel somewhat disadvantaged, considering you probably know everything there is to know about me, yet I know very little about you.”

“You can ask me anything you like.” Arthur sees no reason to be secretive now. “But another time, maybe.”

Dorian gives him an amused, teasing look. “Careful, Arthur, I might take you up on that offer.”

Arthur, used to Dorian’s flirtatious banter, doesn’t even bat an eye. “I’m counting on it.”

It’s by chance that he notices it since he’s been avoiding Garrett’s gaze this entire time, but he spots Garrett turning his head from his peripheral vision and the sharp movement draws his attention.

Garrett is frowning, glancing between him and Dorian with something Arthur can’t quite place. It’s not quite a scowl, but not just an attentive look either. Is he irritated? But what would he have to be irritated about?

Then Garrett catches Arthur staring, and the furrow between his brows fades as quickly as it came. Arthur isn’t quite sure what to make of it.

“So, what are you going to tell the others?” Garrett asks, changing the topic into something Arthur would rather not have thought about for a while.

“You mean about the time loop,” Arthur asserts quietly, gazing down at his knees as the familiar anxiety swells up in his chest at coming clean to his inner circle so early on.

“We can keep your secret,” Dorian offers.

Arthur shakes his head. “No.”

“No?”

He’s done giving up, and he’s done running away.

“I’m going to tell them the truth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew, it's been way longer than i planned on! law school has been kicking my ass haha, so i hope this extra long chapter makes up for it <3


	10. heart and mind

 

His footsteps are loud, insistent, like the beat of a ceaseless drum. His hands fidget, touching things, random objects and furniture in the hallway as if to ground himself. He’s pacing back and forth, grumbling like a bad-tempered lion.

Dorian watches him with intrigue. Regulus Trevelyan is an endless reserve of pure masculine energy that turns into a torrent of chaos when lacking direction, flooding his environment and catching anyone who is near enough in its maelstrom.

And as Redcliffe’s best healers tend to his younger brother to make sure he’s ready for the trek back to Haven, Regulus definitely appears directionless.

“Were you like this while we were stuck in the other dimension?” Dorian asks, seated on a chair in the castle’s hallway outside Arthur’s door, holding a book in his hands that he abandoned in order to observe Regulus a while ago.

It was the only quiet corner Dorian could find, the castle’s servants scrambling once a messenger arrived announcing that no one other than the King of Ferelden was on his way to Redcliffe.

He would be here any second now, and since Arthur decided—with an expression of both exasperation and weariness—that they would remain to meet with King Alistair, their departure would likely be delayed.

“No,” Regulus answers Dorian’s question without even glancing up from his pacing. “I was too busy chasing down Venatori agents.”

“You got them all, I hope?”

A shrug. “We’re still sweeping the mages to weed out any infiltrators, but yes, we got all the ones that bolted as soon as Alexius’ plan failed.”

Dorian closes his book, his finger tapping on the wooden armrest of his chair.

“And Alexius?” he inquires, keeping his tone conversational.

Still, Regulus stops his pacing and looks up at him. “What about him?”

“What is the Inquisition planning on doing with him?”

The crease between Regulus’ brows thickens. “I don’t know.”

“Ah.”

It should no longer be Dorian's concern. Alexius and he fell out; Dorian’s reaction was to drown his anger in fine wine and Alexius’s reaction was to head a Tevinter cult. He knows that he owes Alexius nothing, least of all his sympathy, but he can’t erase the many good memories they made together before everything went wrong.

Before Alexius made it wrong.

Dorian talked to Felix while the Herald was still passed out in his bed, and Felix told him as much.

“He’s not your responsibility, Dorian,” Felix said.

“Of course he’s not,” Dorian scoffed, but Felix gave him a sharp look that meant he knew exactly how full of shit Dorian was, and he was right.

All that preaching he did to Arthur about not blaming himself, and yet Dorian went and did the exact same thing to himself. Maybe if he reached out to Alexius, tried to talk to him instead of lingering in his stubborn and prideful silence just to spare his own ego—

“How do you get your hair to look like that?”

Dorian blinks, broken out of his thoughts by the sudden and seemingly random question. Regulus is standing a few feet in front of his chair with a hand on his hip, his expression curious, but it must have been meant to change the topic.

Yet he seems entirely earnest as he regards Dorian’s perfectly coiffed locks. His other hand thoughtfully rubs over the small scar on his chin sticking out from beneath his stubble, nothing compared to the larger scar running down the right side of his face from eyebrow to cheek. He looks so very rough, not like his brother and sister who are more refined and elegant in their features, more aristocratic. 

Dorian definitely prefers the roughness. 

“Boil some flax seeds and add a touch of rosemary oil to the water,” Dorian answers, staring back at Regulus’ tousled hair as Regulus self-consciously brushes a hand through it. It’s thick and not quite curly, yet wilder compared to Arthur’s soft and straight tresses. The only thing they have in common is the same gingerbread brown color. “Though I don’t think you need the recipe.”

“No?” Regulus says, grinning at him.

“No,” Dorian states, lips curling playfully. “I quite enjoy the _rolled-fresh-out-of-bed_ -look.”

Regulus seems to finally find some new direction for his restless energy, because he turns the charm up to eleven as his grin shifts into a cocky smile that flashes a bit of teeth, eyelids lowering subtly and intensifying his already piercing green-gold irises.

“You can enjoy much more than just the look,” he all but purrs, his otherwise large, loud voice lowered into depths that make Dorian’s blood run hotter.  

He basks in the attention—it’s all in good fun, isn’t it?

Before Dorian can formulate a fittingly suave reply, however, the door to Arthur’s temporary bedroom opens up. Dorian is expecting to see the healers leave, but instead finds the Herald of Andraste himself sweeping outside.

Regulus all but spins around on his heels to face him. “Artie! Did the healers clear you?”

“They told me I’m fine,” Arthur answers, tone a bit clipped. He hadn’t appreciated the idea of being fussed over, but it was the only way to assure Cassandra and the others that he wouldn’t spontaneously drop dead during the ride back to Haven. “Has King Alistair arrived yet?”

“Not that we’ve heard,” Dorian answers.

Arthur nods to himself, his pensive gaze drifting across the soft blue carpet laid out in the hallway. “Good, I should speak to the rebel mages before he gets here.”

Regulus rests his elbow on top of Arthur’s shoulder though he's only an inch or so taller, and Arthur glances sideways at him but doesn’t brush him off. He just looks a little surprised at the bit of human contact.

“Got a plan on how to deal with them?” Regulus asks leisurely, not seeming remotely intimidated by the idea of meeting the monarch of a country, much like the rest of their party.

When Dorian was downstairs having breakfast with the others, none of them so much as blinked at the idea. In fact, Varric mentioned almost off-handedly that he as well as Hawke and the rest of their friends from Kirkwall have seen the King before, and that Hawke even had a brief but polite conversation with him.

The Inquisition seems to have attracted quite a few interesting characters to it, if not infamous ones. Varric even did Dorian the favor of pulling him aside and warning him away from Fenris, considering the history between him and the Imperium.

Normally Dorian would disregard the advice, might even take it as a challenge were it any other situation, but he’s not heartless. Sure, he might not have spared any thought for the average slave kept by his family, but what was done to Fenris goes far beyond that, and Dorian has enough sense not to poke that particular hornet’s nest.

Fenris had enough self-restraint to completely ignore his existence during breakfast earlier, and so the least Dorian could do was to return the courtesy.

Another part of it is that he doesn’t want to cause any trouble for Arthur by getting into an incident. This kind of attitude is uncommonly considerate of him, he admits, but after seeing the sincerity with which Arthur declared Dorian his best friend?

It got to him.

Also, he isn’t keen on getting his heart ripped out; he read the book, he knows what Fenris is capable of.

“A plan isn’t necessary,” Arthur says to Regulus, bringing Dorian’s focus back to the conversation. “The rebel mages don’t have any room to maneuver after Fiona’s catastrophic blunder, which leaves them at the Inquisition’s mercy.”

“Hawke mentioned you wanted to conscript them,” Dorian interjects casually.

Arthur’s eyes flit to him. “I can see why he would phrase it that way, but that’s not entirely accurate.”

“Oh?” Dorian is a bit surprised at that. “Will you offer them an alliance instead?”

“No,” Arthur answers carefully. “Not that, either.”

“Then what?”

“I have to discuss it with Cassandra first,” Arthur states. “Where is she?”

“The castle courtyard is where I last saw her, beating up on some poor practice dummy.”

Arthur nudges Regulus’ elbow off his shoulder. Regulus pulls it away and straightens up, but still hovers near Arthur, trying very hard to be subtle about it but his worried frown gives him away.

Frankly, it’s adorable.

“Had breakfast yet?” Regulus asks, and Arthur smiles with some amusement.

“Yes, father.”

Regulus groans with realization. “I am starting to sound like him, aren’t I?”

“I hate to tell you this,” Arthur says blandly, “but you’ve _always_ sounded like father, Regulus.”

“Hey, there are worse things!”

A doting father and a protective older brother.

Dorian wonders what that’s like.

* * *

“Hawke, I have to ask,” Varric says to him as they loiter in the grand hall of Redcliffe’s castle where they’re waiting for the King of Ferelden to show up. “Why does so much weird shit keep happening to you?”

Garrett stares down at Varric, arms crossed.

“I’m serious,” Varric insists.

“Varric, if I knew the answer to that question I wouldn’t be in this situation.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“You have to admit,” Fenris speaks, leaning back against a pillar to the right of Garrett, “crossing time and space into another world is somewhat more weird than usual.”

Garrett looks at Varric and motions to Fenris. “See? I didn’t ask for any of this!”

“I never said that you did,” Varric replies placatingly. “But just- really, Hawke?”

Garrett sighs. “I know.” 

“Kirkwall was one thing,” Varric continues. “Batshit is the norm in that city. Slaying giant rock-monsters? Red lyrium haunting mansions and turning people into statues? I could handle that, but this… this is on a whole new level.”

Garrett watches a servant girl scurry past them, joining the other few furiously trying to scrub the bloodstains out of the grey stone tiles of the floor where corpses of Venatori agents were lying just a few hours ago. Strips of cold sunlight glare through the windows above, highlighting the dark hues of the blood splattered across the grand hall.

The image reminds him of a trail of smoke between the trees of a frozen forest, red bodies falling down one by one, and winter-blue eyes glinting like daggers from the shadows.

There’s a strange sort of beauty to it that Garrett can’t quite explain. It’s silent, but breathtaking.

Eventually, he dismisses the memories and shrugs at Varric. “Take it in stride.”  

“Just like that?”

“It’s either that or curl up on the floor and cry for a few hours,” Garrett answers dryly. “I’d rather move on with my life.”

Varric smiles and shakes his head, exchanging a look with Fenris who lets out an amused huff.

“Only you, Hawke,” Fenris says, half a smile pulling on his lips.

Garrett takes it as a compliment. “Where are Carver and Merrill?”

“I think they’re outside with Cassandra,” Varric says. “Which is why I’ve chosen to stay inside. Where it’s safe. Far, far away from her.”

“You realize we’re still all going to have to ride back to Haven together, right?”

Varric groans. “Don’t remind me. I don’t know what’s worse, sitting on a horse for half a day or constantly having to watch my back in case Cassandra decides to kick me off my saddle.”

“The Seeker hardly seems that petty,” Fenris says, skeptical.

Whether she is or she isn’t never gets put up for a debate, because before the conversation can continue the sound of several footsteps breaks up the tranquil atmosphere within the grand hall.

Garrett turns to face the entrance just in time to watch Fiona walk through the doors into the hall, three other rebel mages trailing her closely. He doesn’t know where she’s been all this time or what she’s been doing, but as the current leader of the rebel mages she will doubtlessly have to take responsibility for what happened in Redcliffe in front of King Alistair.

He hears Fenris mutter something that’s likely unflattering under his breath, while Varric’s gaze turns focused and sharp as he watches Fiona with the rest of them. The servants don’t bother halting their work to acknowledge them, but they do cast a few surreptitious glances.

“Grand Enchanter Fiona,” Garrett greets as civilly as he can, which translates into a mocking little smile and an unimpressed tone.

“Champion,” Fiona replies with grace, either purposefully ignoring or unaware of Garrett’s attitude that’s bordering on being outright disrespectful.

Fenris on the other hand does not bother with passive aggressive displays. He casts a single glare filled with revulsion her way before he turns away and heads straight for the doors, refusing to so much as occupy the same room with her. Garrett almost wants to thank him for his restraint.

But it seems Fiona is determined to remain unshakable, because she doesn’t so much as glance at Fenris as he leaves, instead moving on to ask Garrett, “How is the Herald?”

“Pissed off,” Garrett lies just to watch her stiffen, “but otherwise he’s doing just fine.”

“I see.” Fiona’s tone is stilted, her shoulders tense as she looks down at the ground and the burden she carries clearly weighs heavily on her. Garrett almost feels sorry for her.

Almost.

Nonetheless, Fiona persists in continuing the awkward, nearly hostile conversation as she looks up to meet Garrett’s eyes and asks, “Do you know what’s to become of us, then?”

Garrett exchanges a look with Varric, but before either of them can even try to answer the question another set of footsteps—just a single pair this time—interrupts them.

The rhythm is sharp but unhurried, one that would be subtle had it not been the lone sound echoing through the corridor leading into the grand hall.

“I believe I can answer that question for you, Grand Enchanter,” Arthur responds, emerging from the shadows of the corridor and the sight of it is striking.

The stature of the castle walls, the richness of the embroidered tapestries and the dignity and nobility of his surroundings all fit him like a glove. If Garrett did not know better, he could easily mistake Arthur for being the true master of Redcliffe Castle—even the servants stop what they’re doing and turn to look at him when he speaks.

A big part of it must be his years of experience, but there’s a dissonance in what Garrett sees that reminds him strongly of the day he first walked into the renovated halls of his reclaimed family estate.

It’s foreign and distant to him. He grew up with dirt underneath his fingernails, patches of mismatched fabrics sewn into the holes he would rip through the coarse linen of his tunic, the thin wood of his childhood home creaking like old bones and leaking rain through every thunderstorm.

Even after he became the Champion of Kirkwall Garrett’s finery never fit him right. He hated the empty spaces of his estate, never filled enough no matter how much furniture he stuffed into the rooms. The only thing that hasn’t changed are his hands, callused and rough and scarred over no matter how much he cleans them.

He was so relieved to have someone to relate to—someone who didn’t ask for power but rather had it foisted upon him like Garrett did—that he never stopped to think about their differences.

The thought that Arthur has more in common with a wealthy heir to a noble family like Dorian than he does with Garrett has a bitter taste to it.

“Herald,” Fiona says, hurriedly turning to face Arthur while composing herself, leaving Garrett and Varric to stare at her back. “I did not expect… no matter.”

Perhaps it’s the influence of the Anchor, but as Arthur walks towards them he takes up so much space. The room looks smaller with him in it.

“I’m sure you’re eager to hear the Inquisition’s proposal,” Arthur says coolly, his face carefully schooled into a neutral and relaxed gaze.

“Yes.” Fiona does not look eager. “Considering what the Inquisition has done for us, I do not believe we have much of a choice but accept anything you chose to offer us.”

Garrett is so fixated on Arthur that he doesn’t notice the people entering the grand hall until one of them, Cassandra, joins Arthur while Regulus and Dorian hang back near the doors as they watch it all play out.

“There is always a choice, Grand Enchanter,” Cassandra responds, standing beside Arthur with her hands folded behind her and her back straight, cutting an imposing figure. “Just as you chose to enter into an agreement with Tevinter.”

“If I had known the Magister’s true intentions, I would’ve never—” Fiona takes a deep breath, shoulders drawn up.

She must be feeling the pressure, with Garrett staring intently at her back and Arthur and Cassandra facing her. There’s nowhere she can run to.

“I made a mistake,” Fiona admits, the tension flowing into the curt tones of her voice. “But I was desperate. We had no allies—”

“No allies?” Cassandra repeats sharply. “King Alistair offered you refuge!”

“But not equality,” Fiona argues. “We are most grateful for his generosity and believe his wish to aid us to be a genuine one, but he is limited by his position. After what happened in Kinloch Hold, the nobility of Ferelden is not so forgiving that they would agree to offer us citizenship, to offer us _true_ protection against those that would see us imprisoned.”

“And so your solution to that is to deal with Tevinter instead?”

Fiona says nothing, and lowers her head to avoid Cassandra’s glare.

Poor judgement aside, Garrett understands her reasoning. As progressive a monarch that Alistair is when it comes to the mages, if he could not grant the rebel mages the status of true citizens then there was little to protect them against the Chantry.

Tevinter was the only nation that allowed mages full legal rights as citizens whereas most other countries assigned them a separate, lower status that meant they belonged wholly to the Chantry’s jurisdiction.

“While it may not seem like it,” Arthur says, “I do sympathize with your plight, Grand Enchanter.”

He looks past her, to the three mages she brought with her. “But the fact of the matter is, you were elected the leader of this movement and you made a bad decision. Now all there is left is for you to do is to take responsibility.”

“Herald?” Fiona asks, voice tilting upwards in a nervous reflex.

“The Inquisition will offer the rebel mages our protection.” Arthur’s eyes flit back to Fiona, his stare steady. “We implore you to join us in the war against the Elder One who tried to enslave you, and make no mistake, this _is_ a war. In return, however, we expect your full submission as well as for you, Fiona, to step down as the leader of the rebel mages.

“Of course, once the Breach is sealed and the Elder One is defeated, you will be free to choose your own path once more.” Arthur’s gaze strays aimlessly, appearing pensive for a moment before he continues. “If we could offer you an equal alliance, we would, but we have to consider the political fallout and the damage that it might do to our cause should we declare as much. Not to mention that the benefits to the rebel mages taking up such a just cause far outweighs these temporary restrictions; should we be successful, you would garner far more support than had you allied with Tevinter.”

It is a clever, calculated plan—Garrett wishes he could see the look on Fiona’s face as she considers Arthur’s proposition.

It’s not quite an alliance, but not quite a conscription either; it’s a merger, a mutually beneficial arrangement with some stipulations. The Inquisition will still come out the bigger winner, but the rebel mages will not walk away with empty hands either.

This way the Inquisition can claim to have leashed the rebels to those opposed to mage freedom, while simultaneously courting their supporters by pointing to their sheltering the mages. A necessary tactic should they want to recruit the templars as well, though it will still not prove to be an easy task.

Removing Fiona as the head of the movement and leaving it without any leadership is doubtlessly another ploy to placate the templars in the future, while Garrett’s presence in the Inquisition should also reassure the mages.

Garrett would be impressed at all the thought that must have gone into the plan, but he expected nothing less from Arthur.

He can’t deny that he feels a bit of vindictive delight, though. 

“That is…” Fiona clears her throat, glancing back at the mages she brought with her. “I will relay your offer to the others, but… it is not an unreasonable one. I suspect the majority of the rebel mages will approve, though I will still need to put it up for debate.”

“I expect an answer sooner rather than later, Grand Enchanter,” Arthur says sternly, and Garrett notices the use of _I_  rather than the _we_ Arthur was using before. He wonders if it’s intentional or just a slip-up. “The terms are non-negotiable.”

“Yes,” Fiona acknowledges. “You will have your response within the hour.”

She inclines her head to Arthur and Cassandra, then she and the other mages take their leave. It’s not as if they have much of a choice, but if they’re going to remove Fiona as the leader of the movement then they will need the consensus of the entire group.

As soon as the mages have left, Cassandra turns to Arthur. “We will have to make preparations at Haven.”

Arthur nods, but his focus is wandering off again as his eyes trail over the servants quietly listening in while they work to clean the floors, buckets of water mixed with blood filled to the brim. “I made some adjustments before we left to Redcliffe in order to give them a secure place to stay, but we’re running short on lyrium supplies and—”

Seemingly appearing out of nowhere (which is probably just because Garrett momentarily forgot anyone else existed aside from Arthur) Regulus comes up from behind Arthur and throws an arm over his shoulders, grinning from ear to ear.

“What was that?” he exclaims while Arthur’s knees almost buckle under the sudden weight. “You were amazing!”

Arthur tries to look unaffected, but even in the dim sunlight Garrett can tell the color spreading across his cheeks. “It was nothing special.”

“Nothing special?” Regulus repeats, incredulous. “Artie, public speaking used to make you _nauseous_!”

Arthur frowns. “This was hardly public.”

“Oh, come on, you did great,” Regulus insists, lowering his arm from Arthur’s shoulders to his upper back and giving him an affectionate pat. “Celia would be so proud of you— _I’m_ proud of you.”

Arthur ducks his head, visibly shy though he can’t seem to hold back a smile and the easy love between the two brothers is almost jarring to see for Garrett.

He has never had that with Carver.

During his staring he catches Varric’s eyes, who gives him a sort of look and Garrett can tell that Varric knows what he’s thinking. It’s not quite concern, maybe more like empathy.

Varric never had that with Bartrand either, while he was still alive.

“Someone should ride ahead to Haven,” Cassandra states, breaking up the atmosphere, but Garrett catches the flicker of emotion on her face as she watches Arthur and Regulus though it disappears quickly. Does she have any siblings?

Dorian is the only one who appears completely unaffected, but then again, he’s not even looking their way, appearing lost in thought as he leans against the wall next to the doors of the grand hall.

“That would be best,” Arthur agrees with Cassandra. “I’ll go look for a messenger.”

Regulus slips his arm off Arthur to let him go and Garrett sees his opportunity.

“I’ll come with you,” he says, smoothly falling into step next to Arthur who glances briefly at him but doesn’t acknowledge him otherwise while he heads out.

They start walking past Dorian’s position by the door—and no, Garrett didn’t _consciously_ position himself between the two of them, but he’s not complaining either since Dorian’s lingering stare on Arthur is starting to put him on edge.

It’s because he’s Tevinter, Garrett assumes. He killed enough Tevinter slavers back in Kirkwall to where his entire view of the country has been colored, particularly taking into account Fenris' experiences. Garrett can't think of any other reason for his growing aversion toward Dorian. The man hasn’t even done anything aside from saving their hides back in the alternate dimension.

One would think that would count in his favor.

Dorian notices Garrett’s intent stare and then chuckles, holding up his palms with an amused smirk just as they pass him by. A little like he’s signaling that he’s backing off.

For some reason, Garrett’s tension dissipates.

“What was that about?” Arthur asks curiously.

“I have no idea,” Garrett replies honestly.

Arthur’s brows arch slightly but he doesn’t comment any further, so Garrett takes it upon himself to continue the conversation.

“This morning you said you were going to tell everyone the truth,” he mentions casually, trying to mask his burning curiosity. “But what exactly is the truth?”

Arthur hadn’t explained any further and not long after that the healers came in, chasing Garrett and Dorian out of the room.

Ever since Arthur revealed to them his past lives, Garrett has been speculating on all the things Arthur must’ve seen, must’ve experienced it.

One of those lives Arthur already told them about, the one that ended with Haven burning to the ground, but what about the other ones? He said that he defeated Corypheus before but that someone betrayed him, not mentioning who it was or why. That seems like the most important bit of information, yet one thing in particular that Arthur said back then keeps repeating in Garrett’s mind.

_“I wanted so desperately to never wake up that when I did, I- I almost—”_

Garrett remembers the way he felt after his mother died. It’s not the same as what Arthur has gone through but when he imagines reliving that pain again, imagines experiencing it again four times over, it makes his heart ache.

“It’s a long story,” Arthur answers vaguely, the only thing betraying his discomfort the way his shoulders draw up slightly, arms stiff by his sides. “Much longer than we have time for.”

“I could make do with a brief summary,” Garrett quips, counting the twitch of Arthur’s lips as a brief smile, though it’s quickly replaced by a deep wrinkle between his brows and a tightness around his mouth.

“If you don’t mind, I’d… I’d rather not talk about it right now.” Arthur’s head is bowed as he stares down at the ground, locks of his hair falling forward and hanging between him and Garrett like a curtain. “It’s difficult. Remembering it is- difficult.”

Arthur said something similar in the other world, about how talking about it made it real. He doesn’t look quite ready to make it real, at least not yet.

“But,” Arthur adds, “I am glad that I told you.”

“Oh?”

“It was relieving to get it off my chest.”

They’re silent for a short while as they come to a halt inside the entrance hall, its large double doors standing open and leading out into the castle’s courtyard. It’s quiet outside, the sun briefly obscured by a trail of white feathery clouds floating through an otherwise perfect blue sky. The sounds of birds chirping and quiet chatter is broken up occasionally by a heavy breeze that rustles through the tops of the trees.

Garrett waits patiently until Arthur speaks again, letting the noise from the outside world fill up the space between them.

The words come with effort and Arthur does it almost reluctantly, but when he meets Garrett’s eyes his gaze is so sincere that Garrett can tell the vulnerability of it is what scares him.

“Thank you, Garrett, for believing me.”

It must mean a lot to him, more than Garrett can understand.

“This time is going to be different,” Garrett says, usually so wary of making promises and yet this is the second one he’s made to Arthur already.

He always insisted to anyone who asked that he didn’t become the Champion of Kirkwall by choice, though he knows that’s not the whole truth. You don’t just accidentally stumble into being the hero several times over.

Maybe a part of him does have a bit of a savior complex, but Garrett is selfish with it. He’s always been selfish. He went to the Deep Roads to earn money and status for his family, he saved the city from the Qunari for his friends and for himself, he stood up for the mages against Meredith simply because he himself was a mage, because his father and his little sister were mages.

Garrett has never been altruistic, and never pretended to be.

So he joined the Inquisition for similar reasons, for Varric and for his loved ones, to keep them all safe from the mistake he made by setting Corypheus free. He couldn’t care less about the rest of the world, certainly didn’t care about the Inquisition and its Herald when he first headed out to Haven. That’s what it started as.

And while that hasn’t changed Garrett thinks, much in the same way as before, that he’s doing it for Arthur now as well.

Arthur meanwhile is staring at him like he wants to believe it, but can’t. Garrett doesn’t blame him, he’ll just have to prove Arthur wrong.  

“Why did you come with me?” Arthur finally asks as his eyes wander off toward the courtyard, changing the subject to something safer and it takes Garrett a second to switch gears. “I’m perfectly capable of finding a messenger on my own.”

Best to keep the rest of the conversation light.

Garrett shrugs and smiles. “Maybe I just wanted an excuse.”

Arthur’s head turns slightly to look at him, a little too quickly to play off as indifferent even though his face is composed. “An excuse for what?”

Oh, the setup is irresistible.

Garrett leans in and lowers his voice. “To get you alone.”

He can _see_ Arthur’s thoughts freezing in his head right after he utters the sentence. Arthur’s beautifully blue eyes grow wide and his gorgeous pink lips part slightly in flustered shock, but no words come out.

“You look pretty when you’re speechless,” Garrett says. “Although, you always look pretty.”

When Arthur doesn’t reply, cheeks flushed and averting his gaze, Garrett tilts his head slightly.

“Did I make you uncomfortable?” he ventures.

“No, I…” Arthur pauses, though he still doesn’t look at Garrett. “I just don’t… I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Garrett assures him. “I was simply being honest.”

Arthur laughs somewhat at that, maybe a little uncertainly as he peeks at Garrett from the corners of his eyes. “You seriously think I’m- pretty?”

A fair question, since he doesn’t think Arthur is the type to often be called _pretty_ , let alone so boldly. You couldn’t just walk up to the Empress of Orlais to tell her she was cute, either.

Thankfully, Garrett never cared much for etiquette.

“I think you're breathtaking.” Garrett doesn’t know what suddenly spurred him to be laying on the charm like this, but he’s enjoying it now and since Arthur seems receptive to it he might as well keep going. “You’re an attractive man, Arthur, no matter what word you prefer.”

Something changes in Arthur's face, something dims in his eyes and now Garrett finds himself the recipient of that even, indifferent expression Fiona faced earlier. 

“You’re a flirt,” Arthur says and he’s not wrong, but the way he brushes off the compliment is far too quick and resolute. “And this is not the time to be playing around.”

Playing around?

Arthur turns away from him and walks to the courtyard, having decided to end it there.

As Garrett lingers in the shadows of the entrance hall and watches Arthur go he finds that it’s actually bothering him. Being shot down and told to stop fooling around is hardly new for Garrett—Cullen alone could attest to that from firsthand experience—but something about Arthur’s rejection stings in a way Garrett isn’t used to.

But it shouldn’t sting, because Arthur is right. Garrett doesn’t do serious relationships, he seduces people into bed with him for some fun and leaves it at that. It doesn’t matter how attractive someone is, he’s always made it clear to his past partners that he’s in it for the sex and nothing more. This should be no different.

He’s playing around just like Arthur said.

Isn’t he?

* * *

By the time King Alistair arrives at Redcliffe Castle where he is received by the Herald of Andraste and the Champion of Kirkwall, a few miles away a rider on a black horse is journeying through the Ferelden meadows with a single-minded focus.

Her destination: Caer Oswin.

The castle has been plagued with rumors of its master’s death since last year. Arcelia has heard tell of Bann Loren’s seclusion ever since the death of his wife and son during the Fifth Blight. Friends and nobles close to him claimed to have seen strange new guards around the castle during their visits, ones that did not even wear Bann Loren’s colors.

It’s clear that whoever is responsible for the missing Seekers of Truth must also have a hand in Bann Loren’s disappearance, but what Arcelia cannot figure out is why. Could this be connected to whoever is responsible for the explosion at the Conclave, or is it a separate matter entirely?

The trip to Caer Oswin is not a pleasant one. Arcelia keeps up the pace, knowing that time is of the essence if she wants to have any chance of finding Leliana’s missing agent alive.

Considering it will be a day’s travel, however, the agent’s chances of Arcelia making it on time to save them are slim to begin with.

Thankfully there’s not much trouble along the way. The Fade rifts prove an annoying problem, forcing her to take detours that only serve to stall her, but traveling alone is far less likely to get one killed than traveling in a group that could easily draw the attention of demons, bandits, or crazed mages and templars.

She takes only a few breaks, continuing to ride throughout the day until the sun has already long set when she finally reaches Bann Loren’s now infamous castle.

Her stealth will suit her well here, especially at night, but even as she quietly slips through the cover of trees and thick shrubbery toward the castle, the silence and lack of activity surrounding it surprises her.

There are no guards stationed outside. In fact, as she observes the castle walls she notices parts of it have been completely overtaken by the overgrowth of vines, cracks and holes in the stone left untended. It looks as if it’s in the midst of falling into complete disrepair.

Arcelia approaches a wall and peers up to an open window where she spots the light of a candle burning inside a room, an opening just big enough for her to squeeze through.

She flattens her hands against the wall, testing its sturdiness. If she’s not careful some of the stone might give way, but going in through the front door is a foolish idea and thankfully also unnecessary. Leliana gave her a basic lay-out of the castle, so she’s aware of all the possible exits she can take depending on where she finds the agent.

Taking a deep breath, Arcelia directs all the giddy anticipation and excitement in her chest into her muscles instead as she leaps several feet up to the wall and manages to hook her hands on some gaps between the stones.

Unfortunately there isn’t much else to grab onto, and footholds are even harder to find. She’s glad she had the sense to trade the long traveling cloak she usually wears for fitted leather armor, though she doesn’t plan to get into a fight.

On the upside, the climb up the wall is a great exercise for her upper body, making her rely mostly on her arms as she slowly makes her way up to the window.

She pauses right below it to listen for any sounds, and sure enough hears someone’s feet treading the wooden floorboards that creak in response. From this angle she can’t tell where they are in the room, and waiting around for them to leave isn’t a test of endurance she’s eager to take.

Carefully, Arcelia edges from around the bottom to pull herself up the wall until she’s hanging right next to the window, listening for the footsteps all the while. The sound isn’t very close.

Whoever is inside the room is currently on the other side, pacing around.

She leans over the edge, cautiously peering inside to see someone in armor standing over a desk, their back turned to her. They’re muttering something, but she can’t quite make out the words.

Not that it matters.

Arcelia slips inside with the grace of a cat, her eyes transfixed on the prey in front of her as she falls into that familiar state of being where she can hear nothing but the pounding beat of her own heart, and see nothing but the vein running along her target’s next.

Her dagger aches for it, but killing them would be too hasty.

Treading silently through the room, Arcelia comes up right behind the soldier—a short pause, no longer than the length of a heartbeat—and then strikes.

Her arm locks around their neck, squeezing, breathless gasps and clawing hands as seconds pass and then they sleep.

She settles them against the wall, then gets a good look at their armor.

Templar.

Arcelia frowns, presented with a clue that only seems to raise more questions. She assumed the new guards that were said to have taken over Bann Loren’s castle were behind the missing Seekers, so what are templars doing here?

They could not possibly—

She shakes her head, dismissing the thought. No use speculating when she still has so little information.

Arcelia is about to turn away from the templar when she notices something strange about his armor. Aside from the regular sword depicted on the chest plate, there’s an added symbol of a flame engraved around it that isn’t familiar to her at all.

Kneeling down in front of the passed out templar, Arcelia then notices strange scars around their mouth and on parts of their skin not obscured by their helmet. Almost like little red cracks, seeming to glow.

“Red lyrium,” Arcelia breathes when the realization hits her.

That’s not good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fax: at this time of the story (9:41 dragon) arthur is physically 28 years old, but adding in his timeloops mentally he has aged to 33, while arcelia is 30 and regulus is 35!
> 
> for comparison, hawke was born somewhere around 9:06-9:07 dragon, canonically making him 34-35, while cullen and dorian are both 30 according to canon
> 
> lots of 30 year olds in this story lol


End file.
